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.
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