Cast out from realms where hope takes flight,
And borne on stormwinds of winter’s night,
It clawed through frost with whispered dread
To haunt all dreams where sanity fled.

Each night the raven came to speak,
Its voice a dirge with wisdom bleak.
It perched upon his chamber sill
And whispered futures dark and still.

“Tomorrow brings a letter sealed,
Where grief and ruin are revealed.”
And true, at dawn, the missive came—
A debt, disgrace, a tarnished name.

“Next week,” it croaked, “a stranger’s gaze
Shall stalk thee through the market’s maze.”
He saw her there, with ghost-white eyes,
She mouthed his sins, recast his lies.

Each prophecy the bird foretold
Came crawling forth, merciless, cold.
He begged to know when it would cease—
The raven promised no release.

“One month,” it rasped, “your thoughts shall fray,
As sanity slowly bleeds away.”
He felt the worming fractures spread,
The whispers feasting in his head.

Night after night, the bird returned,
Its gaze grew fierce, its purpose burned.
It carried twigs of midnight pain
To nest within his fevered brain.

At last, the raven pressed his ear,
And breathed the only truth to hear:
“Thy searching ends in midnight’s black—
For I am you, come circling back.”

He screamed as feathers split his skin,
As beak broke through from deep within.
Now nightly, from cold windowsills,
He croaks the futures no one wills.