The 19th Day of the First Month of the Year

The 19th Day of the First Month of the Year

Born in Boston - the 19th day of 1809, or so they say.

In childhood abandoned by father’s place and lost a majestic mother’s grace.

Torn apart, his mind and soul, his love of writing was beyond control.

Gracefully, from callused finger, spilled words to parchment the stories weirder.

By midnight’s candle he did abide and spoke of death and love divine.

Annabel Lee – she was a child, and he a child, that loved with great love in a kingdom by the sea.

From The Raven, he was plunged, to stars in heaven, from which she hung.

But death would take her, his Annabel Lee, no hanging stardom would set her free.

Upon death’s cold breath he waited some, until the life died from her lungs.

Forgotten hope and darkness’ slave, she will linger - in the grave.

Abandoned life and melancholic rage, again he turned to pen and page.

What would bring him more delight, but to a fall from grace this cold dark night?

The proverbial effigy of literary fear, he became, within the year.

With darkness crept - his ghostly shadow and more than not his faith was hallowed.

Though spent from remorse and self destruction, he could not release his own mortal sin.


From Spirits of the Dead came clear his tale, of spectral forces beyond the veil.

Graced by muse and the dead perhaps, no two stories would overlap.

Wicked in thought, his concepts they came, only to defend his self as sane.

A Tell-Tale Heart of murder so true, that even your conscious can’t best the devil in you.

A Black Cat - told a tale of best friends, in Pluto he found, more than in men.

But it would be wise, if remembered so well, his loss and love perplexed him in hell.

Beyond his thought he pressed the page and became the mystical, literary mage.

Inspirations' frail hand, so pale and so cold, gave no warmth to this spirited soul.

His voice now forgotten, his pen now silent, his mind is now quiet and no longer violent.

In October, on the 7th day, he left without reason or knowing the way.

And since the fall of 1849, the Seraphim’s cry at the stroke of past nine.

For the masters death came as no surprise, but a heart ache will forever be part of his demise.

A cloaked and dark figure visits his grave, roses and cognac respectfully paid.

Sleep well now Poe, for your readers are well kept, in sweet gentle darkness we humbly respect.

~Faith Serafin