bittersweet storms
ocean blue tears
at least now
you and me
are equal

i cant love you
in seasons anymore

there were days
I danced with angels
and found poetry

I wrote sonnets
and wore us like jewellery
together, we were so
heavenly

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