“Works with obvious meanings
cease to be art”
yet we must not be obscure
for obscurity’s sake
the meaning should be clear, flowing
just beneath the surface
Like a heart beneath the floor perhaps?
Or a skeleton behind a door?
He disliked
pretenders , creating
deceitful characters to suffer ignoble deaths
though he died wearing another man’s clothes
and yelling “Reynolds!”
The first to try and live by his pen
alone, he suffered, as we do
losing his only love to a burst blood vessel in her throat
and descending into drunken madness
He was seeking
something, the real meaning
beneath, within,
but he hated
transcendentalists, and wrote
in careful, measured
heartbeats
“Lord help my poor soul”
he whispered when he finally saw the darkness
beyond the door
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I hadn’t realized that you have an interest in Poe. I share that interest with you – have for most of my life. A tragic figure. Perhaps that is the source of my interest, a parallel, in a way, to my own life. I enjoyed this poem very much; it reflects quite well his tortured soul and, if I may say so, something of your own inner struggles. I sense a progression in your poetic offerings – a growing steadiness and confidence. Well done. More please!