Edmund V. Strolis
Edmund V. Strolis Poems
Edgar Allan Poe
They all wash over me with pitying eyes, they think that I don't see.
Yet they are only crude jagged faces on the canvas of my dreams.
Empty their wishes float, as they seem to pray my safe return.
How can they know the fever that within this prison burns.
For what is this sinister slow waltz to hell without my sweet Lenore?
My wish which any fool can guess, I must be with her once more.
How my heels find their way to that vacant tomb beyond the bedroom door.
Now I curse the promise of that desperate hour! not to join my love Lenore.
Hooves over ...
September's cool nights and warm days tease and court our sentiments.
In September dusk, magic beckons us to taste her autumn fruit yet still the warm afternoon holds us faithful to the high summer's waning song.
Autumn in September is subtle and everywhere, calling us forward. But forward toward what? What misty memories await us just around the bend?
How inviting is the warm lazy walk this time of year. Summer's loose embrace still warms your shoulders and skies so bl