Raven Redux

Of late I've stood accused of plotting, jotting plans and fev'rishly blotting

Mottling orders of perfection, scattered pages on the floor -

Scribblings, dribblings, flightings, writings,

Sightings of some inspiration, desperate for sweet cessation

Rhyming couplets lay in drifts aside the parlor door.

Hark? Oh. 'Tis the wind and nothing "moor."

Though opium did mar his fate, still he's a genius, and my pate

Goes fumbling, bumbling, rumbling for some lostling work of master-lore,

Like a fool, I scrabble, babble, searching through the endless rabble

Prattle of madd'ning oracle, cast upon a verbal shore.

- His damn'ed bird's above my door!

Quoth the raven, "Evermore."

As I ponder my library, once again I see the quand'ry,

Gaping holes within the fabric of some pages' studied lore -

Plot lines flagging, sad tropes sagging, dangling participles nagging,

Bagging b-list authors' holes 'pon twilight sparkles on the moor.

"Hopefully a fad," I sighed, "just a fad and nothing more."

The raven muttered, "What a snore!"

Example? I shall give you clearly - character with flaws who nearly

Grew me dearly rotting mad! Frustrations ample and galore;

He may be gay, he might be drooling, other wizards smartly fooling,

Distractions and protractions leading smartly to a clos-ed door.

"Your plotting's errant, man, just give the kid the truth and more!"

Quoth the raven, "Dumbledore."

Look to the Bard, then, you who weary, of such dreary queer-y fiery

Prose - prosaic and profound - within such pages to explore;

Tempests raging, wise men sage-ing, Royals, pages, mages 'mazing,

Comedy as well, cross-dress-ed lovers and their sweet amours.

Clever thoughts and words concise, wisdom trickled from before!

Sighed the raven, "What a chore."

"Fool!" I cried, "Your wits a-drool, you cannot share a molecule of breath

With him who made these texts a testament to mortal coil!

Of Hamlet, then, such banter blazing, crossing swords and countries razing

Others' lands when courtiers' hazing lines cause them to die withal?

What of the setting, grandiose, such splendour to our sight enthrall?"

Quoth the raven, "Elsinore."

"Fie, you addled louse-y bird, not another measly word

Should trickle from thy beak nor speak of tweaking our compounded lore!

Shall I turn th' opp'site way? To carnal sin, and thoughts astray

To porno play and lay my lusty poesy up 'gainst yonder door?

Shall your snotty, grotty hottie rot, begot from tawdry core?"

Snarked the raven, "What a boor!"

"Fine, you molted chicken cawing, scrawny pigeon waxing, yawning!

Feast your eyes upon this drawing that I scribble on the floor!

Such member makes a maiden's chamber quiver in enrap'tured book!

Look! What is that tapping, rapping, gently thwapping,

Flapping 'gainst a parlor door? Hm, the wind? Or paramour?

Quoth the raven, "Amateur."

Senses reeling, loss of feeling, unappealing bells of pealing

Jangling clanging stupor, loop o'er, banging louder in my brain!

Alas, alack! A brutal hack of masterwork has pushed me back!

Is there no other way to crack myself out of this drudgery?

Is imitation, flattery? A truth sincere to set me free?

Yawned the raven, "Mimicry."

Author's note: I actually had this dream back in 2007, where I was the bird watching myself at the writing desk, having a meltdown trying to write this thing up. Crumpled pages and ink spills and ripped papers and hair pulling and door and moor and all. I woke up with the first two lines multiple times through the years. It took till 2020 to pin it to page with modern references that didn't exist when I first dreamed it, and till now to tighten it up to scan properly. It gets weird in my head.