Poe-etchings Of Grief
Poe-etchings of grief.
He was a pencil of a man,
rail thin, used often, bent and chewed,
by critics who would often pan,
his brilliant works, folks misconstrued.
He was a brief sketch etched in blood,
he outlined mankind's darker side,
then went to join the morgue he rued,
his "Telltale Heart" made death his bride.
He walks the streets of Baltimore,
haunting the place where his bones mesh,
and every year upon his grave,
a rose is laid, bright red and fresh.
Wild shock of hair, and petulant lips,
below a mustache neatly trimmed,
with magic in his fingertips,
he penned the devil's favorite hymns.
I'd like to toss back potent rums,
in any pub with Mr. Poe,
and whisper tales of ghostly chums,
that drive us to fermented woes.
Some night I'll sit upon his grave,
and beg him come, collaborate,
spin one more tale of gruesome gore,
perhaps that's how I'll meet my fate.
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