I am from this day forward a hollow thing:

A forgotten promise, an unfeathered wing.

My words weave themselves shrouds of ink,

The chains of my thoughts rust link by link,

The dreams I chase are ephemeral breaths:

All dearest things must have their deaths.

Not now because one has gone too far away,

But because my ravens fly home to stay.

I had thought them gone to distances greyed

By all the uncertainty that Fate conveyed,

But they dust all my hours with dark feathers

And drag my heart into inclement weathers.

The bones of their wings are made of words,

Their caws echo dismissals sharp as swords.

All the things I would rather not say now sing

I am from this day forward a hollow thing.