Shadows dance where he once walked,
Beneath the moon’s pale, silent light.
In the stillness, a raven talks,
Of a soul that took its flight.

His quill, now still, once wove dark dreams,
In tales of sorrow, love, and fright.
A genius lost to time, it seems,
Yet his spirit haunts the night.

Through mist and fog, his whispers call,
From realms where shadows never die.
In the silence, echoes fall,
As stars weep from the sky.

O’er graves and crypts, his legacy,
A poet’s heart, forever bound.
In the dark, his memory,
Lives on where night is found.