Literature & *****

Poor Edgar his world was dark, laughter was
a gasp on dying lips. He mined the deepest
ravine where not even the summer sun reaches  
but he was able to, in a moment of clarity that
lit up his tunnel, to give us great literature,
a look into his world of horror.

There are other Edgars who walk in our streets
or sit in lonely rooms wearing a cape of despair,
their laughter too is a shriek of agony, a bitter
smile set in a pale face of utter defeat, for they
cannot articulate and share with us or turn them
suffering into readable literature.