Nod to They

A raven sits outside this hour

Teardrops turn from sweet to sour

Dark descends, though they don’t cower

In this dead of night

A little horse may have no fear

But naught is there a farmhouse near

Clock strikes twelve; midnight we hear

As bells chime in respite

‘Tis a valley; pit, to some

Housing their clock’s pendulum

No Romeo to save one from

The shadow poised to fright

No end exists to this sidewalk

‘Twas built with pen, and ink, and chalk

Path laid by word’s righteous talk

To aide internal plight

Hearts tell tales of roads not taken

Death won’t stop so pray, awaken

Naught to see, for there’s a stake in

That which guides our sight

Nod to They for inspiration

Places gone, minds mold creation

Still, they rise in narration

Here with us, tonight

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