In Response to "The Premature Burial"

Into the night from the dawn may we sway
To discover the point at which we all ceased to breathe.
This coffin of angst in which we kneel and pray
Shall forever keep captive the faint and naive.

I reach my hands upward to prove myself wrong,
But now forever I am kept in this cryptal hell.
I hear all the sounds of Cloyes' tarnished song,
And with it the noise of muted chapel bells.

I reak of wet cloth and my hair is pulled out.
One half of my bones lie adjacent to my body.
My hope of a future is now cluttered with doubt,
Thus my last words transpose to a plea.

Into the night from the dawn may we sway
To discover the point at which we all ceased to breathe.
For the coffin knows not when to hold back dismay,
And it selfishly keeps me: one faint and naive.