The Midnight Hour by Yasha

I stood at the foot of the door,

by the study, where I bled ink

Into the floor,

A lamp lit dim

And I burn the midnight oil,

As I churn, and as I toil—

But then I hear a voice,

A mocking crow,

A tapping by the windows

I turn to see, a bird, perched,

with its ruffled feathers

and intelligent eyes,

Jet-black, as midnight,

measuring the worth of I

The clock struck, one

But my work is not done.

There is a shadow at the foot of the door. It slinks across the floor.

Like dripping ink.

Or oozing oil.

The lamp sputters, its flame gone

My work is yet to be done.