Dove's flutter, in startled hurried flight, and black raven,
leaving their overgrown gardens plush safe haven,
surrounding hidden, ivy covered, castle walls stones
for centuries in caliginous foggy seclusions dreary graveyard bones.
Here within dark forest rumored evil cryptic hounds
lies medieval Black Raven Manor, Mister Wolf owner of estate grounds,.
Magazines journalist, pretty, Ms Deflore,
knocked, nervously, on the large wooden entry way door.
It swung open slowly, revealing a dark figure of a man, well groomed
Red fireplace embers glowed behind him, in the otherwise darkened room.
You must be....,
striking a match and lighting a candle wick dance
windows framed in burgundy-red, velvet drapes and crowned valance;
crystal stemware sat atop a bar of carved wood Gothic faces, with expressions of pain.
An antiquated pearls and gold filigree framed mirror, reflections of insane.
Mr. wolf's fingers caressed her bare shoulders removing her wrap
chills shivered through her body, hardly a word spoken, to tap
He presumed to pour her a sifter of cognac triumph, his eyes penetrating,
Keeping her faith that all the rumors of occult were fictitious ventilating.
He took her for a tour in the dimly lit castle corridors,
and he continued talking about the village maidens who were prisoners and more....
"would you care to view the dungeon it is in excellent repair?"
swinging a creaking door open to descending spiral stairs
wall chains and shackles, dungeon cells and eerie cold air draft.
"Stories say that guilotine blocks still bleed from the blades severing craft ,"
The Magazine received a lengthy report by mail concerning
resignation enclosed, saying she wouldn't be returning,
police called on Mr Wolf, "she wasn't there," he claimed;
rumors continue about Raven Manor, little is known,
and nobody knows where Ms Deflore has gone.
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