"If Poe wouldn't have been born?"
There'd had been no rapping or tapping—
(at least for a while—at my door?)
Nor would there had been morbid-beauty
with depth and sin. . .
That circles the globe: of HPL and CAS.
What a mundane life (it would have been)
without the devil's pen.
I gripped the legacy: lying on savage ground,
the third-eye of the hunter, filled with wax—
calls for breath, in the silent Valley of Shock;
thus, stung—I remain, by the fruitless trees
of horror—than I hear a whisper:
"Lord, help my poor soul."
This poem, inspired by Phillip A. Ellis, 6/4/04.