He wrote stories ,
Only telling of himself,
He told horror,
When he drank from the shelf,
His fears tortured his eroading mind,
Freakish he seemed to the readers eye,
He used darkness,
And fear,
To tell of the unreal,
Always deepened in his depressed tears.
His words only thought of,
A fictional line,
Crude entertainment,
To the weird and the sly.

What did they think,
Those professors and scholars?,
Did not they wonder,
Why,
those words he did utter?

Was he not thought ,
To be given help,
To free him
From his mind filled with dark?

His world was of gray,
Of deep,
Darkened night,
Just drank the vodka,
To keep him “alive”.

He must of been haunted,
Ghosts of a shore,
His imagination,
Believeing a lore.

Crept all did Poe,
Away he did write,
Only to tell his life story in the night!



 
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