Some Dark Raven

Her rage is scrawled in blood-red ink
Across the plain white page. Her shadow
Lengthens, stretches as the day grows darker
I feel an irrevocable connection with her
I venture further into that bleak territory
I fear the gift she has bestowed upon me

This diary takes my hand and leads me
Through life. I cling to her word
For she was truly great and I turn
To contemplate her portrait. That image
Painted by those circling vultures
Who never knew her and never will

Her dismembered corpse lies there
On that wasteland, in that public mortuary
Laid bare for all to see. Blue blood
Seeps from her memory. And I
Have delegated all the responsibility
That was bequeathed to me

Her ghost is some dark raven
Huddled in an unbending tree
By daylight I hear her brood
By twilight she slips nimbly by
In the devilish deluge of darkness
She pays no mind to my distress

I am strangled, entangled
By her opulent prose and her convoluted
History. That sumptuous, pungent plot
And she has never forgiven me
For permitting those in authority
To bury her on unconsecrated ground