We fell in love
in a city
built by the
gods

Edgar Alan Poe is dead. Seriously, I read it.
He died in October 1849 - or did he?
Do we really know?

Poe wrote about death a lot,
he teased with it, it was his favorite tool.
He kept death close and twisted it like a knife.

His profession was the macabre, the shadow,
the summoned dread and the gruesome aftermath.

He was a writer and a critic - what’s more dreadful than a critic?

They say he died from “unknown causes”
- how absolutely perfect.

I spun
your lies
into gold

i think
my soul
knew you

before
i met you

We left Paris behind us,
shivering in
golden moonlight
and headed
for the east coast

somehow
every empty
promise
still had
me hoping
you could
change

you were
the harbour
and i was the
waning sea

just
like wildflowers
blooming in the
setting sun

I cannot
control
how I choose to
grow

Because that’s
what happens
when you
love hard

you fear
just as much
to.

Our love is a castle

and

I was your queen.