I Died June Fifth Aged Sixty Three
I remember little the night of June the fifth.
The ride to the e.r. the pain of my reserrection and jerked
back into the house of the living,this life of pain, once again.
My arm is still numb from all the needles, vampire's around me drawing my blood.
At all time of the night and day.
Unpalatable food asking them why, when the cozy hand of death had firmly closed around me.
While hell on earth weights upon me, Edgar Allan Poe dead at 49.
More deserving of life than that which too him was given
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