Raven Speaks

I’m a harbinger, true, but that’s not my

only skill. I can summon your soul,

bend it left or right, drain and draw it from

the blood until the truth of you runs out.

Here’s what you know but don’t believe: that

your end is nearer than you fear and your shadow

is holier than flesh. My favor’s worth at

least as much as a preacher’s throaty lies

meant to drown the din of whispers floating

in your skull. My prophecy is dead-on

accurate, rapping and knocking on the

door of your denial, casting doubt on the floor

of your graven doctrine. Once you brush all

the rumors and lies aside, what’s left be-

comes a spew of frantic pleas. Prayers lifted

to Heaven and begging for mercy are never

answered; grace is the wind and nothing more.

_{This poem originally appeared in Rundelania.}