I'm a failure as a writer, can someone just tell me that now and save me the pain of figuring it out on my own.

On that note; a poem.

Morrigana

Celtic goddess, red hair’d, old crow,
Of three you take my sword from me.
The gift of friend, the fear of foe,
Alight you witch on yonder tree.

I’ll tell your tale of death and life,
From the high wind and the low lake.
Firbolg slayer, mother and wife,
Revengeful of the ones we make.

Sent thee, Cu Chulainn to his grave,
A thousand men did not him break,
With careless words his fate did pave,
One woman, fair, his life did take.

Raven woman, dressèd in black,
What do you carry in your sack?

To him you went in splendid youth.
Long red, thick hair, high cheeks, soft lips,
On bended knee you spoke the truth.
Around your neck hung fair cowslips.

Between your hands you took his face,
Upon his lips to plant a kiss,
I love you, Cu Chulainn, sweet grace;
Into his ear you whisper’d this.

He push’d you from his gentle touch
Away you flew in wing’d frenzy
Never before expirenc’d such
From one used to being choosey.

Raven woman, dressèd in black,
What do you carry in your sack?

As the battle was raging on
You hatched yourself a vengeful plan.
Just before the morning’s pale dawn
From the river came a Scotsman.

In his teeth a rusty old knife
The most cunning of a decoy
Him sent by you to stop this strife
Quickly kill Cu Chulainn, young boy.

From Cu Chulainn came the first blood
Through his shoulder pierc’d cold copper
Pouring forth into red wet mud
You would rescue him, Earth Stopper.

Raven woman, dressèd in black,
What do you carry in your sack?

As an old hag you went to him
Healing blessings to him offered
When his future lookèd near grim
From help he would have just proffered

Away you went leaving him cursed
A second time he saw not you
Only heading into the worst
Of the troubles that would ensue

Before the last battle was fought
You took his shirt to mark for death
You wash it with the water fraught
Of the souls who not more draw breath

Raven woman, dressèd in black,
What do you carry in your sack?

He dressed himself in your clean robe, wrappèd his sword around his waist
He was too soon to leave this globe
Upon him soon she, death, made haste

He lay alone in the cold mud
As his body lost all its heat
And all around saturat’d with blood
That time was when he knew defeat

In shape of bird on him you sat
To show the world your true power
You won, at last, this long savate
Still reign supreme in the last hour

Raven women, dressèd in black,
The lives of dead men in your sack.