I am in a dark room
with Edgar Allen Poe,
there is a blank wall
turned into a movie screen,
showing his life story,
a struggle of his life without glory.
Living life as a writer with a lonely pen,
hiking up a strenuous and bumpy trail,
macabre poetry and short stories written,
fell upon few and most with blind eyes,
as a poet and author he insisted to be read,
unfortunately providing him meager bread.
Dark shadows followed him wherever he went,
his essence of a cloak and dagger existence,
opening up a genre of mysteries and whodunnits,
known as the first writer of detective stories,
life was unforgiving for this enigma of a man,
he died at the age of forty not being his plan.
February 4, 2018
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