Detective Steel wasn't the type to take a break often.
The distress was evident in the tycoon's voice immediately, "Detective?" and "hello???"
The Raven Pecked On Wood
When Poe decided he would hear a tapping on his chamber door,
He figured that the bird should speak and caw a haunting Nevermore,
But death is such a rhythmic tapping,
Time speeds past us overlapping
With the sounds of life,
In every footstep closer to its door.
So, despite my less than practiced hand and less than household name,
I’ll posit that a Woodpecker is better suited to death’s game,
For dulled down tapping, oft repeating, fading out then in for fleeting
moments, sounds like He I fear in ways which suit a Raven poor.
While death may meet you as a Raven in a formal door to door,
The truer sacred pain of knowing He is there each day is more.
Like woodpeckers, never ceasing, tapping, pecking, hunting, beating,
Death’s a drum but never do speak about the obvious.
While the crow’s taps echo cleanly, and their caw can beckon meanly,
Death in essence is a clock so subtle it can hide in sight.
The clicking, clacking on the tree,
More clearly harkens back to He,
Who Ravens have long claimed to be,
And who is there all day and night.
Working steady, clock a’ticking,
Scratching, jabbing, rapping, hitting,
Each few seconds off the total, til’ He breaks through to his goal.