Wounded Illusion

Do you hear that irksome din that awkward, rasping craw
A raven, gripped to life's last limbs or am I grasping straws?
Listen there, that painful squall that parched and broken cry
A croak, as of some wretched soul awoken to the sky

You hear it not? How could you not? Its calls are stinging sharp
The blasphemy of aural grot appals the ringing dark
And now I cannot hear for noise I cannot think for pain
The piercing screech negates my poise and rattles through my brain

Yet think, and quickly think I must as terror works its will
And weaves through halls of dank and dust with swift unearthly skill
My senses reel as though attacked they leave me sick and sore
A fearfulness you clearly lack unstricken by the caw

A flash of rage, I will fetch a blade and plunge it to the hilt
The door soon swings, my fever sings there is nothing here but guilt
I cannot flee, I cannot fight the coarsest feathers fold
Their oily blackness blocks my sight as wings grow stiff and cold
My screams tear wounds in your illusions