Edgar Poe of poetry was no serf of only prose,
instead a brow of distant skies,
a raven of a crow disguised,
a light shining in between the lines.
Edgar Poe of prose he be,
a man of worth and intelligence he,
a warmth in cool the passion be,
a cool in heat the breeze be he,
the knocking of understanding,
the waning of unawareness,
the blessing of knowledge,
the extremities of exploration,
the tenderness of love.
Edgar Poe of literacy was alive his writings be,
they live beyond the dark grave of hearts,
outside those limits they shan't depart,
the colors of both the gray, the dark, the night,
and the colors of all the roses brave,
save the blight of time,
Poe's words - they live another day.
Poe's words - they anchor in to stay.
