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May 2020
The blocks were closed around my neck,
The splintered hole burned my neck sore.
The blade would come tumbling to my neck,
And I would see daylight no more.

The King has summoned me to death,
He said that I had been disloyal.
Soon I would swallow my last breath,
To end a life of stress and toil.

And now the black-masked man he comes,
To release the blade of destiny...
T'was not the blade that gave me death,
The crime of injustice gave death to me.

© Victor Fuhrman
When I was a child in the early 1960's, I was obsessed with the writing of Edgar Allan Poe. I actually thought at one point that I may have been Poe in a previous incarnation! When I was twelve, the following poem came through me after a dream which reinforced the Poe connection.
Victor Fuhrman
Written by
Victor Fuhrman  67/M/New York City
(67/M/New York City)   
  127
   Fawn and Salvador Kent
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