in deathly hours she waits
even the flowers picked out are black
in a broken wind’s gait
Walking by empty streets
winding down the wind and gale
She is perched on a stone at the corner church
seeking out his last trail
At length she halts her lonely heart
for she remembers his veiled Virginia
with memory of morbid sorrow
she wipes out her cold dark tear
When the empty pages beckon
she remembers the walk past the stones
down the dark ally in the early hours
she had walked these stones alone
When the Raven knocks on her door
she knows its time to head back
for it would stay forevermore
while she retraces her tracks
She misses his perfection
and even more so his vacant prose
He was the perfect poet to his muse
She, forever, mourns him with a rose…
P.S: Every year a rose from an unknown visitor was placed on Edgar Allan Poe’s grave on his birth anniversary. The poem is dedicated to the “Poe Toasters: 🙂
