I have never heard the 
rap-tap-tapping on my 
chamber door, whether it 
be from a raven or likewise,

I have never hidden the raised
tissue whitened in the hailing
of all my battles forlorn,
or my inability to feel much 
without the taste of bait and lure. 

Luna refused to mother
the shepherds whore,
though a disposition like 
mine has proven difficult
to ignore, perhaps only to

She is not a mother,
I am not a mother.

She is but a guide and I am 
buying into the excess time 
I have wretchedly torn from 
Pandora’s own hands, the 
femme fatal’s box of wisdom 
for all who sneer and plan. 

Exposing a pale neck to the 
reality of your own twisted
perils tends to soothe the void 
come a blistering winter,
or the night he was deployed. 

I am not a mother,
but she isn’t either.

A divine retribution, if you will. 
In silence of my screaming lambs,
I linger, between the confines
of those chamber doors. 

I hear everything, every whisper,
every echo of a pin hit the floor,
but never the rapping or tapping 
of my long lost Lenore. 

– B. 

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