MUS #3 – The Rooks

     Once upon an afternoon clear, with frost snapping at nose and ear,
at castle and keep I had arrived, with wage in hand the bread earned;
     a sight of folly, spiralling black, an upturned wind-swept brolly.
     Yet betrayal, when closer looked, it was my nearest and most yearned,
My flock of rooks hitherto secure, for their master unconcerned.
         They cawed to me “Interned!”

     Lacking advice or wisdom sage, my mind compensated with rage.
For surely the product of my tiring work and distance returned,
     the cold dark early starts, heavy loads, and inexperienced snorts,
     left my mind prey to the fancy that pets could leave their masters spurned.
For the word relayed to me clearly left my logic over-turned,
          surely The Rook spoke: “Interned”?

     Unable to rely on mental faculties, I rested on tested brutalities,
and previous uncertainties abated whilst confidence firmed.
     The intended result of this show no doubt was direct insult
     To their master whom, once taken for granted, had to be left burned
by pets kept clean and safe yet seemed to prefer being ungoverned;
          claiming here to be “interned”

     “Should I apologise!?” I exclaimed “Is that what this signifies?!”
But my volume caused a frenzy and my carpet became patterned
     as feathers poured to the covered floor. Each bird swirled with raucous caw
     ignoring me as I did implore, for training to be relearned.
Obedience took hold briefly, and into the cage they returned
          indefinitely interned.

     Hastily new cages I constructed, with their escape obstructed
Wondering whilst wings wrapped and whipped me what there was to be discerned
     From that word oft repeated. A feeling of life uncompleted?
     Feeling trapped a call for help, or a wish to find their master ‘urned’
As I worked these thoughts assailed me, my emotions unchecked churned
          They cawed at me “Interned!”

     Why? Was it just to cause me distress? Could they not just acquiesce?
No; the flock’s final faltered freedom flight against the cage confirmed.
     Should I feel guilt not self-pity as my anger begins to wilt?
     Never more could I understand why, to my outstretched hand, they squirmed;
And as the cage door closed and locked our positions were overturned.
          They screeched at me “Interned!”

Source: Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven


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