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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A tribute to Edgar Allan Poe.

Submitted: August 02, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 02, 2016



Once upon a midnight dull and dim, while I wonder'd weary and grim, 
O'er the tales of a poet lingering in the darkness of those days of yore—
While I was lightly napping, I heard the peculiar flapping, and a tapping,
As of a gentle guest was rapping, rapping slowly, at my chambre door.
I felt a sudden visitor methought, tapping there at my chambre door— 
Only this, and nothing more. 

Open'd wide swung the shutters, swaying the birr of uncertain flutters, 
When a howling wind of thrust, had bustl'd with the ominous hour frore.
Intrigued I sought the sound unbroken, eagerly I thought—was this a token,
With the fluster that was unspoken, behind those hollow walls of lost lore?
As I had open'd the door to the ambages of hollow walls of lost lore— 
Darkness there, and nothing more. 

A thrilling noise of the stranger—preternatural of an imminent danger, 
Nigh a narrow corridor of fret and scare that shook my feet upon the floor.
And this nightly scent of a censer, stirr'd the echoes becoming denser,
As the caws made me tenser, from a swarthy bird who shall not implore. 
'Tis the most horrible sound of a swarthy bird, who shall ne'er implore— 
Nameless here, e'en more. 

Flapping wings of might and main, I felt by the creak and strain,
And the accurst doors had bidden, the fright that I dread'd more.
Poe in the corridor with his unease, bearing his wretch'd surcease, 
With a sorrow laden of his decease, I hope and pray to see no more, 
Alas, that sorrow laden I remember, as I hope then to see no more— 
'Tis my imagination I thought, and nothing more. 

The glimpse of a wayworn man, wandering spectral and wan, 
With his shabby pantaloons worn and his mien for e'ermore, 
Taint'd with his bombazine coat that no poor gent can gloat 
Of the horrors that denote, this unsightly bathos heretofore;
That sempiternal gleam of this unsightly bathos heretofore— 
A wraith I thought, and nothing more. 

He tarried for so long to utter—although he yearn'd to mutter, 
In the Stygian days of that hopeless abyss, the word Lenore. 
The distant damp dew of his graveyard with the select'd few, 
Whence his brittle bones stew, rotting away with just uproar," 
As his queer voice I hear, from the epitaph of his just uproar — 
'Tis the wind perhaps, and nothing more. 

In my chambre enter'd a lone raven, no flit or flutter of a craven, 
The quaint intrudor who was tapping at my chambre door before, 
Staring with the ebony guise of his scarlet eyes of dark disguise, 
Perch'd as a stately prize, upon a bust of Pallas above my door— 
Perch'd so honourably, upon a bust of Pallas above my door— 
Perch'd there, and nothing more. 

"Ne'ermore!" spoke this ungainly bird that had wil'd and stirr'd, 
The cadent soul's heart of a righteous discourse sinners deplore; 
And cursing me with a devilish ire, shap'd from the brimstone dire,
With the tenfold souls burning in a fire, in a hall of oblivion to ignore— 
Too barren and too unnoticeable, is this ghastly oblivion to ignore— 
My madness, and nothing more. 

"Raven, art thou a prophet or demon, an omen or a beacon? 
Henceforth art thou fore'er, the sublunary legend of folklore? 
Doest thou beguile me with the words of prophecy I must see, 
Or must I soon believe thee, and his tristful truth wherefore? 
Do the exalt'd immortals redeem, his tristful truth wherefore? 
Quoth the raven "Ne'ermore." 

Taunting with a riddle of sorrow, from night onto the morrow, 
That fail'd to sing his dirge, and gave him no condign encore, 
Until the lofty halls of Elysium had rid him of his cruel delirium, 
And bestow'd upon him an equilibrium of rever'd bards galore. 
I sens'd his valediction resplendent of rever'd bards galore— 
The raven's wings ruffl'd, as he forbore. 

"Bird! tell me—tell me of his dirge—hath it been sung yet I urge, 
By those divine angels of death, who mourn'd the days of yore? 
The genuine glory of his wrought quill, the braid'd stanzas of thrill. 
Hark! the paean of the loyal will of his sober peers for e'ermore— 
Forsooth, that paean of sublimity of his sober peers for e'ermore."
Quoth the raven "Ne'ermore." 

But the raven e'er unbreakable, spoke with a memory so impeccable, 
As if that mere duplicitous word, had haunt'd with a malefaction before. 
Spreading his long wings indiscreetly, and flying onto my draperies fleetly, 
To warn me of that vicissitude discreetly, that befell upon me e'ermore, 
Fraught with a phantom of vicissitude, that befell upon me e'ermore— 
A whim of death, I breath'd e'en more. 

"Avaunt thee—the tempter from Lethe, and that quaff of nepenthe,
And that joyous coming of the morrow shall then liberate therefore, 
The lorn cenotaph of his insidious solitude and the drear incertitude, 
As a door of magnitude shall open, to the fain Aidenn of Lenore—" 
The chambre door leading a spirit, to the fain Aidenn of Lenore— 
Quoth the raven "Ne'ermore." 

Drown in a shade of Poe's gloom, tormenting me with harsh doom, 
Within the ceaseless dread of this horrid phantasmagoria I abhor! 
Would I see a following night of mirth, and feast again in this earth, 
Or would I fade away in a dearth of a tenebrous night that o'erbore? 
I betook myself to a resignation of a tenebrous night that o'erbore— 
'Twas the echo of ne'ermore!

"Art thou a saintly raven, or art thou a reaper of this maiden? 
Tell me please I must know, for I heed the curiosity to explore, 
The marvellous mystery that intrigues me to know this history 
Of a barmecidal discovery, spiteful naysayers denied as lore—" 
Is this an imaginative myth, spiteful naysayers denied as lore? 
Quoth the raven "Ne'ermore." 

But the raven of no soot or grime, did not flinch with a chime 
Of those church bells foreboding the paean that shall restore, 
The magnanimous vestige that shall uplift his refulgent visage, 
Languishing in a grievous presage, amid the seraphim ashore; 
For I was told of his grievous pall, amid the seraphim ashore— 
What was meant, by its croak "Ne'ermore?" 

"Herald—tempter thee raven, or guardian of this eerie haven, 
I sincerely query is it true, amongst the doubters he forswore, 
Is there Balm in Gilead found, beneath the Pleiades that abound? 
Shall his voice triumph to redound, with the ripples of time herefore?
Is there—is there respite for me, with the ripples of time herefore?
Quoth the raven "Ne'ermore." 

He quitt'd before the early daylight, as he stood firm and upright, 
While a brume had yield'd afterwards, onto the edge of a seashore. 
Into the broad tempest of the foe, disappear'd the silhouette of Poe, 
And the raven flew with piacular woe, beyond the Plutonian shore. 
Verily, his sable pinions had flown, beyond the Plutonian shore— 
My curse shall be uplift'd—ne'ermore!

© Copyright 2020 Franc J. Rodriguez. All rights reserved.

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