man, myth, master, and legend.
The other night I lay dreaming, worn thin from the day,
When much to my dismay, I thought I heard a tapping.
It sounded as if a pen were Tapping, Rapping…Smacking upon the old desk top. I marked it off to exhaustion, silently hoping it would stop…as I lay there dormant, uncertain if I were awake,
I thought I glimpsed a figure sitting at my chair…elbows resting atop my desk; hands tucked under chinny hair.
With a top hat resting slightly off to one side of its noggin’, I could feel its red eyes piercing me, glowing inside the belfry.
I thought I heard a whisper, exactly what was mumbled I’ll not know, but something deep within me swore it said:
Edgar Allen Poe…
Paralyzing fear was about me then, as it crept in with the air.
The cold edged even closer and my heartbeat I soon could hear…
Certain now that I could see a pen, clutched tightly tween boney fingers, Tapping, Rapping… Smacking against the oaken desk top. Exhausted I was no more, and this racket I wished to stop. Voice crackling as I sought to question the wraith, yet wondering if I dare. Mocking with a toothy grin, and that awful glowing stare.
The creatures jaw was moving and whispering I did hear, but in my terror, only confusion reached my ear.
Exactly what was spoken, I am quite sure I’ll not know,
But something deep within me swore I heard…
Edgar Allen Poe
This mocking apparition had me quite perpexled,
To what I owe this meeting, my mind totally vexed.
In terror I agonizingly pondered the meaning of this meeting,
Slowly, realizing this will be no ordinary greeting.
Still I heard the pen, caught amidst the bony fingers,
Tapping, Rapping…Smacking the old desk top, an extended calcium digit pointing towards a parchment…
To what this meaning implies, my mind cannot apprehend,
But slowly as the terror rises, I begin to comprehend.
Again I hear the whisper, muted by my fear, but what it means I’ll not know; even though I swear it says…
Edgar Allen Poe
The monster sits mocking my waning sanity; to think that I could write as such is surely vanity. Poe was quite the genius, albeit ahead of times, myself, I am no master of these cunning rhymes.
Images unnerving, of these I’m sure he saw his share; to pass these thoughts along to others I ask, should he dare.
Yet here this visitant sits with my pen forced tween boney fingers,
Tapping, Rapping…Smacking the oaken desk top.
Caught in a hypnotizing glare, burning embers in the skull,
My mind is quickly roiling, and my senses nearing null.
I see the lipless mouth a movin’, and whispers I do hear,
Muffled sounds to my ear, and a meaning I’ll not know.
I swore I heard this phantom say…
Edgar Allen Poe
In order to survive this assemblage, I now know that I must write.
Penning rapidly, words flow unto the paper from a need born out of fright.
To what I owe this specter, untold ado for a man so dear,
As thoughts appear on papyrus, the image becomes clear.
Here I sit in front of the davenport, with pen clutched in aching hand…
Rapping, Tapping…Smacking the old desktop.
Fortune may elude me, and fame become a fleeting thought,
In memory of this man, words will continually be wrought.
Visages of darker content may not escape my hand; unlike Poe, a leash I must keep upon this instrument, for fear of reprise from man.
Suddenly I hear a whisper, and the sound it is so clear; hardly can I believe, words escaped mine own mouth, and the meaning of which certainly I now know.
I believe I heard myself say…
Edgar Allen Poe
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