A poet’s dark gifts

When I think of you
I think of midnight multiplied
dark eyes, dark wings, dark skies

of sleepless nights
and terror bleak
of telltale hearts
and how they beat

in the twisting chamber
of a guilty consciences’ ear.

Murder looms
cunning and red
behind rooms walled off
and in soft beds.

Loss dresses up in elegance
but elegance moth stitched.
I think of all the fright of All Hallows’ Eve
with never a mention of witch

of madness most articulate
how obsessions pace the floor
and of grisly acts and abject despair
that pirouette resplendent decay
forever ever more.
— Edgar Allen Poe (on the occasion of Edgar Allen Poe’s birthday), by Annette Marie Hyder