Oh your broken, dreadful cries!
They paint and flow, calligraphise!
Velvet incarnate, addictive as flesh,
Marble made liquid, poured out and threshed!
Praise be the words that flooded your bones!
The same lethal curse that is my own!
Like gasoline, it spilled past your lips,
Tumbling out in gilded scripts.
Your flourishing ‘raven’ and tarnished ‘alone’
Make my heart beat with a passionate tone.

Your works fill the world, as bodies do the earth,
Decaying, decomposing, yet still having worth.
You write with blood, shape the pages with rhyme.
And still, my dearest Edgar, you have lasted through time.
Your headstone is still haunted by wine and by rose,
A gift from your fans for your beautiful prose.
We adore you, we thank you, we imitate and more,
Our lives have been shaped by your whimsy and lore.
Lifting the veil and crossing each line,
Using a feather, so soft, so divine.

Your charm and eloquence draws my heart near,
While monsters and madmen incite my deep fears.
You persisted past illness, past death, and past doom,
Preferring instead to work through the gloom.
You used it to feed your creative fire,
A fuel so dark that it raised an empire.
A company of spirits, Lenore and the rest,
An umbric heartbeat from inside our chests.
You are the poet who I love without cost,
A mind so allurious, romantic, and lost.

A lamp glimmers softly, and your face is illumed,
From the ink on your hands, a story is groomed.
Like nails on a railroad, each mark is well-placed,
A trail for our minds, which your heart has graced.
Whispering pleas of your talent to fall upon me,
I hold onto you like a bird to a tree.
With any short fancy of luck and hard work,
I plan to be among your party’s cirque.
Poe, dear man, I implore to your great name,
And hope that this, too, will burgeon your fame.