Saturday, January 30, 2016
Loving Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar, leading your flock
of raven hounds,
could you smell it on me:
despair and weakness
with a whiff of amontillado?
Do you possess a sixth sense?
Am I the low hanging body
on your corpse tree?
Would you love me,
then leave me, bury me,
mourning me with a proper lament?
Brick me in with your own hands,
whisper sweet nevermore in my ear.
Could we role play in a sepulcher?
Let me call you cousin.
Rise and fall for me, Edgar.
Swing your pendulum round and round.
Feel the tell tale beat of my heart,
served just the way you like it:
cold and seasoned with despair.
Find it here.