To Edgar Allen Poe
We never met
unlike in my dreams on a moving jet
shrouded in the blackness to come
counting the dead on my fingers and thumb
a toast to you and your etiquette form
a roast to you and forget the norm
for we love the void
we live in the void
the Moors are calling
and to our death we are falling
til we meet in the pit of blackness
I will write of your greatness.
Copyright © Malcolm Dyer | Year Posted 2007
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