A Lament for Mr. Poe

R.I.P Edgar Allan Poe. Taken from old account.

Raven feathers,
bloody red death,
walled up and suffocating;
is there no end to your
marvelous debauchery?

Golden bugs scatter
across the leaves of
Autumn's delight,
as I watch Eleanor
dance across the field
of my mind.

You painted those
images, you wrote
those lyrical poems,
and they ensnared me
like a lasso around my
neck, wringing it until
I choke with decadent
pleasure, wracking my
body as I read.

Oh, Mr. Poe, how
lost and broken your
soul. Do you know
that I understand? Or
are you lost in the
hell of your own
making?

Author's Note

This is an older poem, from a previous account I had on this site.