There’s No Place Like Poe

To celebrate the 168th anniversary of Edgar Allan Poe’s death, I have written a little dedication to my favorite macabre writer.  At the age of 40, he died on this day in 1849 in Baltimore, MD.  A few days before his death, he walked out of a bar and collapsed.  The cause of his death still remains a mystery until this day…

While I remained in my Dream within a Dream,

My friends, Annabel Lee and Lenore, accompanied me as it would seem.

A Black Cat we came upon while we walked on the shore,

As we heard The Raven say, “Nevermore.”

We were unsure of what The Raven did mean,

Hopefully he was not speaking of our host from the House of Usher who might be a fiend.

We were dressed in costume gathering sand at our feet,

Waiting to put on our Masques as a treat.

The trek took longer as we kept moving as the Pendulum never ended,

Feeling like we were in a Pit of infinite black as we descended.

Out of nothingness did appear a Cask,

I looked to my friends as if we were given some type of task.

Scared, unsure, and nervous framed my comportment,

As I glanced at my friends who were suddenly becoming ethereal and transparent.

We arrived and entered the abode as the host of the Red Death held the door,

While I still was confused about my existence, unsure.

Gliding into the main room I heard a beating sound from the floor,

I quickly floated to the exact spot so I could hear it more.

The wooden floor was being used as a house of rest

For my Tell-Tale Heart I uncovered as I opened the handmade door with utterly no zest.

Alas! The mystery was revealed as I looked up into the mirror on the wall

Into a gossamer figure of myself out of the dream I only thought I was having; then I heard a call

Of The Raven sitting with Annabel Lee and Lenore,

Once more crowing in his ghastly beguiling voice, “Nevermore!”