In the Hush of My Sanctuary
In my sanctuary’s hush, Poe’s tales I clasp,
Into his world, I plunge, a breath, a rasp.
Beneath the creaking floorboards, a heart's pulse
In my mind, it throbs and gasps;
Suddenly, I'm the culprit, in horror's vice, my soul enclasped.
Entombed alive, in a sepulcher so confined,
Where terror's craftful design, I awaken in crypt's obscurity.
Dread, a palpable force, reality maligned and intertwined,
In untimely interment, against fear, unity.
In this sepulchral cell, my heartbeat amplifies,
Resonates with each creak, each stifled sigh.
Shadows dance where darkness lies,
I'm bound by dread, under a moonless sky.
The mirror now reveals a spectral face,
William Wilson, in my reality, is encased.
A duel to demise, a chilling, dread-filled chase,
In this tale of terror, in an unknown space, I'm defaced.
The Rue Morgue's enigma beckons me near,
Its heinous act, a memory etched in sear,
A chilling tale, whispered in every ear,
In this enigmatic realm, where darkness is clear.
In Dupin’s shoes, vigilant, I stand,
Unraveling clues with an acute mind, I demand.
Dark secrets unfurl in this haunting land,
In a tale of horror, where truth takes a resolute stand.
Bound and defenseless, the pendulum descends,
Closer it swings, as time, in stillness suspends.
In the pit and the pendulum, my fate depends,
A tale of terror that never ends.
The pendulum’s deadly arc, a chilling strain,
A relentless blade, a tormentor's gain.
In the depths of despair, I'm forced to maintain,
A will to survive, to endure the pain.
With a shudder, I close the book, return to my realm,
Shaking off the dread, seeking calm at the helm.
Poe's tales, linger, like a haunting, spectral elm,
Leaving me entangled in their otherworldly realm.
Yet, as I gaze around, something is amiss,
The room, cloaked in darkness, the abysmal abyss.
A shiver down my spine, a chilling kiss,
I'm trapped in Poe's world, sealed in its crypt.
Beneath the floorboards, a heart slowly beats,
A rhythmic pulse, my fear retreats.
I'm haunted by the narrator's plea,
"Villains! Dissemble no more! I admit it! I did it!"
The pendulum descends again with a hiss,
This isn't just a story, it's a crevasse.
I scream and shout into the mist,
But there's no escape from this horrifying mess.
With final swing, the pendulum strikes,
The pain is real, like a thousand spikes.
And as darkness descends and light takes flight,
I realize my fate, my soul's all Hallowed Night.
Am I trapped in Poe's world... forevermore?
Am I just a writer with a quill in hand, bleeding obscure lore?
Or is this but a writer's fevered, fevered dream... A mind unexplored?
Copyright ©
Daniel Henry Rodgers
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