However, one good thing has come from the (un)joy of moving, and that is finding the material for today's post. It is a poem I wrote about five years ago expressing my undying love for Edgar Allan Poe, written in a similar poetic metre to Poe's "The Raven". I found it in a box in the cupboard. Enjoy.
or
How I long to one day be known as the female Edgar Allan Poe of the 21st century
To this day I still remember, that dry and warm November
when I first walked to the shop to buy a book to call my own.
I was happy and excited, most whole-heartedly delighted
that my parents felt incited to give me a 10-buck loan.
I could barely quell my passion, in my young and childish fashion,
face lit red instead of ashen, looking for a 10-buck book.
Through the store I did a-wander, rabidly I tried to ponder,
with the money set to squander, round the literature I looked.
Then I saw just what I wanted, sitting there like it was haunted,
from the bookshelf, yes, it taunted, begging me to take it home.
As I picked it up I shivered, the front cover was so vivid,
a picture of a man so livid, that I knew I'd love this tome.
I could sense its ghoulish content from the cover picture's torment,
yet I knew I would but love the work I found inside its folds.
So with undignified elation, I took "Tales of Mystery and Imagination"
with me home past the train station, keeping it tight within my hold.
When at last I got to reading, yes, my dark soul, it was feeding
from the brilliant prose and poetry of Edgar Allan Poe
and I wondered if I ever, could but hope to be as clever
as him, most brilliant author that the world shall ever know.
To this day I still find pleasure, while I'm reading at my leisure
through the most macabre and chilling stories ever written down.
Though we are facing a new age where violent video games are the rage,
nothing ever can compare to Mister Poe, of most renown.
