In suffocating black of night, a creature of dark will take flight

A symbol one may say to bring an ancient evil to one’s door

Void of soul with sound and song, to call it beauty would be wrong

Oh I long to cease this song, as I wade along the shore

Winged death is what I am, what I am is nothing more

What I am is to ignore

All the days seem blurred together I recall the stormy weather, 

A refuge that was not meant for winged death to go explore

From beyond the mist proceeding, distraught cries of anguish leading

Winged death follows heeding, to language one would deplore. 

Peaking interest tempting one to chance one’s fate and go explore

Something that one should ignore 

Winged death makes an appearance, laughter noises incoherence

Questioning to one’s adherence to the painting named Lenore

How could one have such attachment, to the mural hanging that meant

So much to this creature that went on and on about before 

Up above sat winged death, perched above its chamber door

Something that it should ignore

From below the agonizing, angry cries antagonizing

Tension and fear start arising as it gazes from the floor

It should have been my time to leave, but something held me quite naive

To stay and watch this buffoon stumble, rant and rumble… I can’t take this anymore

I have caused too much pain, too much pain it makes me sore

Too much pain I can’t ignore