A graven image of my idol, savior, and personal hero:
EDGAR ALLAN POE
take a moment to gaze at him in awe and wonder. to quote they might be giants, "dig him up and shake his hand, appreciate the man."
however, i do request that you not take this litterally and actually dig him up, for 2 reasons.
1) one day i am going to visit his grave, puncture my hand with the thorn of a black rose, and leave the flower and my blood there as a sign of respect and admiration for he whose words i value more than life...
2) if anyone's getting his corpse, it's me!! you little aspiring necrophiliacs!
for morbidity beyond the realm of poetry: 
The Conqueror Worm
Lo! 't is a gala night
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
Sit in a theatre, to see
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
Mimes, in the form of God on high
And hither and thither fly-
At bidding of vast formless things
Flapping from out their condor wings
That motley drama-oh, be sure
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
But see, amid the mimic rout
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
It writhes!-it writhes!-with mortal pangs
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
Out-out are all the lights-out all!
The curtain, a funeral pall,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
The Sleeper
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golken rim,
And softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog around its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A concious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for all the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps! -- and lo! where it lies
Irene, with her Destinies!
Oh, lady bright! can it be right --
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop --
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully -- so fearfully --
Above the closed and fringed lid
'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange thy pallor, shtrange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye,
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold --
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged pannels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o'er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals --
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portals she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone --
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead that groaned within.
Dreams
Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
My spirit not awak'ning till the beam
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
'T were better than the cold reality
Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
But should I be -- that dream eternally
Continuing -- as dreams have been to me
In my young boyhood -- should it thus be giv'n,
'T were folly still to hope for higher heaven.
For I have revell'd, when the sun was bright
I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light
And loveliness, -- have left my very heart
In climes of mine imagining, apart
From mine own home, with beings that have been
Of mine own thought -- what more could I have seen?
'T was once -- and only once -- and the wild hour
From my remembrance shall not pass -- some pow'r
Or spell had bound me -- 't was the chilly wind
Came o'er me in the night, and left behind
Its image on my spirit -- or the moon
Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
Too coldly -- or the stars -- howe'er it was,
That dream was as that night-wind -- let it pass.
I have been happy, tho' [but] in a dream.
I have been happy -- and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality which brings
To the delerious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love -- and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
here are some words of my own, a mere english class assignment.
Heartache
Rhyme and rhythm inspired by "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe
What a fool was I, divining that a tissue paper lining
Could shield me from the slings and arrows whose pain no mortal could endure,
But at last I've drunk the potion which shall forever cease the motion
Of this threadbare affection token and the tears I so abhor.
No longer could I drown my sorrow, for ever upon the morrow
My suppressed heart bled all the more.
There is a point reached beyond healing - ah, the dying blood congealing!
This soul too often has been shattered, with all will battered, I implore
That the unknown land I seek, when I reach it shall not reek
Of the stale and bitter tears I've known all too well before,
May it be a serene ocean barren fully of emotion
Above which vultures never soar.
here's something new:
originality
d
r
i
p
s
pl
ash
sob m
ascara te
ars crash u
pon blank lin
ed paper clot and
congeal into a pathet
ic attempt at mournful
verse but pain is the most
universal of emotions there
is nothing unique about one
person's laments the paper
is crumpled another fai
lure to silence the
soul and pen
and this is the latest:
roses
plucked from his heart, he hands me a rose
still dewey with blood and trite poems,
crimson and tremulous with gore,
its petals hold respite, stifling moans
of relentless regrets and longings for home --
damp, silky petals of promise.
then from my hand the rose wrenches free
twisting and writhing to conform
to the elab'rate latticework
of glistening petals and menacing thorns,
further obscuring the moolight that mours --
laments for souls beyond reach.
a cry will echo but never be heard,
nor flee our from those jagged gaps
amongst the interlocking stems.
the wrought iron roses will never collapse.
the entangled wall oppressively wraps
its sinuous bars tighter.
and here is my dear kelly's (aka mr. dictator) poem:
Red and Spiteful Blossoms
Do not be so swift to love the roses,
Those red and spiteful blossoms,
Think first of the man whose world is made of them alone,
He can look, but never touch,
He can smell, but never hold,
He can desire, but never have,
He can only gaze and breathe,
His senses teased by a vision and aroma,
That hide a throng of thirsty thorns,
Questing, so unjustly, for his soft, defenseless skin,
T'would be a sorrowful life in a world formed of roses,
A silent, soul-destroying dream,
So take pity on that poor, sad man,
And do not be so swift to love the roses.
back home
about myself
other
