An Overflow of E.A Poe.

E.A Poe, 

Is one who writes of woe,

And malicious ill intent,

Of shrieking women,

Mysterious men,

And demons hidden in vents.

It might be fiction,

Or shall it be called a reflection of his heart?

Whatever it falls,

We can be sure,

His well was ghastly dark.

The opium waves,

Overtook his soul,

And rats climbed up the walls,

The doors locked,

All from inside, 

And no enterance to be found,

Yet up he crawls, 

And in he falls,

To tales of horror and crime,

Where corpses shiver with life, 

And death is all in ones mind,

Where the strangest things occur, 

And even love is a snare,

And nothing is all there is to find,

Everything dark,

Everything dank,

In that shuddering soul of old,

Everything molded,

Crowded and rank,

Like walls which he paints to glow,

And a masquerade took place,

Within the recesses of his sickened mind,

And played out a story,

That was all but kind,

Nevertheless,

E.A Poe,

Is praised for an intent,

Said to be,

Unapparent to any man,

But of some glorious extent!

They say he birthed something,

That maybe no one else could,

However I think,

E.A Poe,

Would say that was far from where he stood.

To such a man I believe he would say,

His intent was all but merry,

I believe he would say,

“Evil is all I carry”.

 

(The story behind this poem about E.A Poe is that I quite literally read him all day today so while I am not sure of the quality of this work of mine I must post it nonetheless because it just exploded out of me! I hope you enjoyed it and I do ever so wish to hear your personal thoughts on Poe and his works. Thank you for stopping by and reading a bit, Love,

Deanna.)

 

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