donatella

I sit alone in my gloomy room,
Feeling the grip of winter, I shiver.
I dare not stare out my window,
As I may just see winters death,
Or worst yet a perched raven staring at me.
Cawing the song of my own death.
But to what end would his song sing?
A gentle lullaby to the splendors of heaven?
Or the cruel shrill to solitary hell?
And if not the raven seen,
Would I become blinded by snows white?
Or see land that is barren and littered with dead?
For this grip of winter is but my own,
And all tales are for me alone.
But what would this mean for me?
That I am already dead, and in Hell?