On Edgar Allan Poe

I think perhaps, there is no sadder thing to know then many of the works of Edgar Allan Poe. In reading those familiar bardic words I find I could be scared of death, dreams, bells and birds. Aside the tomb of his most beloved “Annabelle Lee” lie all the stormy raging of the deep Atlantic sea. Loving and having once been alive and free but lost in death to someone else’s coveting, in the end, we all give in to the strength and wild tempest of the wind. There are lesson taught that remain unlearned when life and liberties are too often spurned and we lie down beside the gentler morning tide to await our turn to touch the life and death divide. In the dark shadows of oncoming night I lit a candle to hold steady, soft and bright to keep me safe when I was not awake keeping back the angels from my soul to take I drifted off to quiet pleasured deeper somber scary sleep, within Poe’s “A Dream Within A Dream” i did creep. In silent ponderings I read and clearly heard “the Bells” awaiting each sound fill the air around which it swells in the ringing, singing, tingling and clinging spells to tell of clamoring steel and metal clashing, smashing, trashing, while all the world is spent of cost within its own created loss repeating non-jubilant rehashed bashings that sing out and shout and scream for more of hate and fear and pain and war waiting to pounce angrily in the name of God to perpetrate God’s will in some hidden fraud. Then “The Raven” calls, causing all to be distraught at the writings, its verbiage, the readings exceeding naught. There softly stepping was a vision imbedded in indebting that around me I wrapped the covers from my bedding to no avail; the caw, the cries, the yells could not be stilled and I lost the powers of my mind, my heart, my will. as voices filled the air with shiver shaking chills four score while in the shadows crept visions of his sweet lost “Lenore”, and there I stand along some solitary shore shouting to the wind, Nevermore.