What wretched fiend has trapped my soul,
and leaves me reprobate?
An unseen spirit haunts my mind,
I cannot concentrate
My words somehow betray my thoughts,
they will not heal my need
But still I write forsaking hope,
'Til my fingers start to bleed
What evil lurks in hearts of men?
This is not God's design
A cancer filled with hollow screams
no matter how benign
My mirror's face has turned away
refusing to look my way
My conscience sits in silent stares
and lets me go astray
The reflection looking back at me
is one I do not know
What happened to the poet's face,
Edgar Allan Poe?
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