The clock had chimed it's
Midnight song
The scribe did ponder doom
Lamplight broke
The shadows long
Within his spacious room.
The light it flicked and fell upon
His sleek head so neatly groomed
It shook as he recounted wrongs
Sad countenance assumed.
No matter how the
Clock world gong
T'would not dispell the gloom
The devil had scribe
On trident prongs
His wraith o'r Poe did loom.

Edgar Allan was in deep despond
As he thought of angel seen
he had escaped the
Benighted pond
For her, his he'vnly queen
And tho he had no magic wand
To bring about her gleam
Again to hear the lovely sound
Of her wingtips keen
His heart once more
began to pound
Thinking of his dream.

The bust of Pallus, pastey pallid
Did o'rlook the crime
While Poe sought to
write a ballad
It seemed nothing
would rhyme
His heart beat like a mallet
He, a poet in his prime
Would not take to his
Down pallet
'Til seeing his sweet, sublime.

Lenore. Angel of his dream.


SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) October 1, 2014