Dead in the center of the bed
Under the gaze of a bird at the sill,
Icy eyes glistening against the glass.
Into the blaze of dawn the bird flies.
Shed black feathers flutter in the wind
And clutter the perch where it stood.
Across the crackle of waking life
Come caws nasty, brutish and short.
Punctuation looking for a sentence end.
In the fade of the sun
In the rise of the moon
At the end of the day
Comes the end of its flight
Perched on a sill, it taps the pain,
Typing the period to the life now
Dead in the center of the bed.
Illustration: "The Raven" by Gustave Dore, 1884