A Dead Man's Luck

• Heidi Hoffman, Grade 10
• Poetry
• 2021

A dead man's luck is never much,
The raven's wings wrap him up and he nestles there,
The crook of its beak on the edge of his brow,
The fruit of his soul long forgotten by those up above,
All there is in the silence of death is the whisper of a ghost,
"Cracked veins run with evil blood," it howls,
"Your heart, how it rots and bleeds liquor and all things fowl,"
The feathery grasp of the Raven's clutch never looses its hold,
No matter how hard he might scream,
"Hail He," it caws, "hail He and say his name,
your mortal soul will perish under his great rule,
and you will rot."
Far beneath the underground does he lie,
The dead man falls further into the abyss of hell,
It was unsurprising you see,
For a dead man's luck is never much