Cognac and Three Roses

Cognac and three roses

Cognac and three roses



A poem dedicated to a mysterious stranger who visits Edgar Allan Poe’s grave with a flask of cognac and roses. Do you ever think and wonder who that may be?







I visit with melancholy in my heart

and think of us as we shared our

words in dark and dreary taverns,

hidden in Boston’s square.


I pour my first glass and sip in

honor of thee and pour the rest

upon your quiet grave not disturbed

for centuries.


Gilded golden moments we shared

like dolphins from a dark blue sea,

two poets listened to the songs of

yearning minstrels with a promise

to set us free.


Only the finest tapestry covered

our reflection of memories, and

letters from across the oceans,

with sealing red wax from long

ago, tucked into our ancient robes.


Sunlight will renew our paled skin,

white by golden lamps reflections

of ravens fighting for the rights to

be our friends, like outcasts from

their nests, they were blinded by

our light.

Circling feathers, they will come

and sit by us as we lay sleeping deep,

in meadows with black poesies while

dreaming within a dream, we share

with no one and will go crazy mad

with envy for the smoky streets of

Boston, and the sailors harbor

beckoning us to go to sea.


Our feathered friends say nay not so.

We are drawn to each other from the

graves and yours is now before me

as I weep, pouring half my cognac

while crushing three red roses in

remembrance of thee, my friend

a poet most indeed.


I come here in disguise in fear that

our spirits will mingle with the

living that banished us forevermore,

from the literary giants of the day

and brought us to feel humble

before their flesh on bent knee,

yet we fooled them and winked

at the devil sitting on their

thorny thrones.


At the feast of fools everybody has

a voice, and ours are not heard,

instead we go to the bottom of our

vessel as silent cries we die inside

and dig our graves as our scribes

foretold before us. I pour another

glass and toast this time to us.

Tis cognac that washes our pain away.


Out lost in the fog we try to find our

way home taking off our disguise we

are naked to the bone for all to view,

two poets lost their lives in the darkest

of nights. Silent criers we were

penning our words digging our

early graves


The angels made of tears, shine

with pride for we found someone

to love that day and they found

someone to love us as we cast

one rose with petals full her way,

and landed in her heart your

sweet Lenore.


Yet I am happy that The Raven

took flight and found rest in the

pages of history my friend so

deserving of recognition in his

time, but plucked away from him

for his carelessness of who he

was, a lost poet staking his

claim in literary circles without

any shame.


I pour the last drop of Cognac

and say it’s time for the cathedral

of silence to cry at the river’s

edge that marks most poets’ graves.

I bend and kiss your grave in

respect and walk towards heaven’s gate.


© Copyright Vincent Moore. All Rights Reserved

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