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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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