The Golden Pen

Lightly the rain falls upon the lamp lit streets, the shabbily dressed figure Walks with an air of uncertainty down the cobbled stone streets, leaning, On his rickety cane, the elderly gentleman huddles beneath his umbrella Of refuge. Shadows of the tenement brownstones line the edge of this rough necked Part of town, here is the sheltering halls of the forgotten do dwell, the poorer Venue that slum lords build their fortune’s foundation’s upon. The gentlemen approaches his own dwellings dormancy with hesitations Beating heart throbbing within his small fragile bent frame, for he knows Tonight shall be his last night on this ethereal plane of existence. For one last moments belief reflection he remains completely still, just to To feel the autumn breeze against his bare flesh, to hear the rain drops hitting Against the window panes, and to bid his final farewell to humanity. Taking out his keys with his wrinkled twisted hands, he unlocks the doors To his apartment, turning around to look outwards the gentlemen sighs, it has Been a hard life, but I’m resolved to meet the next adventure, then he shuts And locks the tenement’s door. Weary from his days traveling the elderly gentlemen, climbs his steps upwards, Towards his little room in the back area of his apartments, then he sits at his office Desk for the last and final time, now to complete my journeys final entry, he thought To himself this writer of the super natural’s acclaim. Dipping his quilted golden pen into his ink well, the master writes one last line, The end, or is this just the beginning? Clumping over, clasping upon his desk the elder gentlemen’s heart lies stilled As if at perfection’s final rest, his golden pen now runs crimson, bleeding downwards Across the aged parchment paper, dripping onto the old wooden floor boards below. The office door blows open a tall figure thus so enters, dressed in a raggedy robe of black, Thread borne and full of tares and wholes, the creature approaches the dead gentleman, As if in a screeching howl, the Grim Reapers touches him, ripping his spectral spirit Free from the fleshes boney shell. I’ve come for you old man, resist me not for your sins are heavy, and I’ve no time for The ranting or ravening’s last pleas for salvations from one such as yourself, I have no Last wishes qualms my friend, take me at your leisure, for I’ve grown weary of this life, And it’s lonely emptiness. Then the room grows cold, the ethereal disturbance ends as quickly as it had begun, Leaving only the shell sitting at the old wooden desk, what happens when the writers Golden pen runs crimson, bleeding downwards across the aged parchment paper, Dripping onto the old wooden floor boards below? The world of humanity thus so weeps for him, for he is the grand master of darkness’s Written word, the skilled craftsman’s whom reveals what lies beyond the darker realms Ebony gates, by his darker words of wonderment. Farewell Mr. Edgar Allen Poe, we shall miss you always, you whom welcomed death So easily, but the world of men is left empty without thee, as thy golden pen thus so Now runs crimson and lies stilled forever. BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN SCATCH A CHARACTER CONTEST 10-19-2014