Blessed and cursed by his genius,
this man fueled by demons from
his mind could not bring forth
from his childhood’s hour
passions from a common spring.
He saw his mother as an angel
charming her audiences while
his father a miserable man
abandoning his family and
Eliza lay dying and before his
tender eyes crying in deep
despair a boy of three years
old lost and separated from
his mother so fair.
Taken in by the Allan family
adopted schooled and educated
into a confident young man of
notability and somewhat stability.
Poe was gifted as a young athlete
and his passion inside so complete,
yet he grieved for his losses came
swiftly as those closest died of
tuberculosis, his weeping never
left his side.
An artist of pen on ceiling and
walls he shared his work in
storytelling to fellow classmates
he would tell, but lost in debtors
grasp he joined the army for fear
he would end up in a cold prison cell.
Lost and all alone this genius poet
did not go down; he joined West Point
and wanted to become a soldier of
some renown, but he left the army
and struck his pen to try to make
a mark among his peers and
become a gentleman.
He penned much and publishers
paid him poorly for his brilliant works
that would surely inspire millions
after his death but not his end.
Blinded by his loss of Virginia he
sunk deeper and deeper into the well
and abyss that he wrote of, troubled
by losing a cousin, a friend, a wife he
sunk into the shadows on the edges
of a living hell.
Private Poe and public Poe were two
different associations, he struggled
with making ends meet and at his feet
was a tormented confession, intoxicated
by alcohol and bitter sadness he often
slipped through the cracks slowly
sinking and drowning while wishing
in fact for death, with constant morbid
fears and hallucinations.
The grim reality of life connected him
to the afterlife and thus his fall into the
dungeons of midnight, forbidden
knowledge of death existed in his soul
and a sharing of this secret was to appear
in his manuscripts he held so dear.
No money was made, yet he was known
as the Raven. He kept his readers entranced
by the readings he did give of this winged
bird feathered in black known as the raven.
When will he see again his Lenore the Raven
spoke and angels sang nevermore and loss
he suffered and death was imminent with
painful bouts of insanity?
Rage and guilt he was a man defeated
crying himself to sleep, lost he was without
his Lenore and thus he penned one of his
last and called it Annabel Lee.
His kingdom by the sea brought Poe
close to feeling his Virginia deeply by the sea,
Oh her tomb craves me to lie beside her
and die as she, down near the beautiful sea,
the beautiful sea.
In his fortieth year his Reaper did appear
and tormented by his loss of Virginia he
could not continue without her near.
Chaotic life and lost in phrases confusion
set in as angels of mercy mocking himself
and knowing he would never again be
loved by such beauty.
Imagining death he wants to ease his
passing from a world of pain and
spiraling out of control he is lost
and so very tired by his casting.
Entering his last farewell with
soiled attire his dying words were
“God help my poor soul” then
death took him to his final resting
place on the other side of tomorrow
to be with his dearest sweet
Living is conquered and his death
finally has cast its last blow.
Yet immortality in his grip at last
© Copyright Vincent Moore 2012. All Rights Reserved.