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 ...
Silence in still anticipation, a hellish storm is brewing in the west.
A robins nest within the pines, will shred and cartwheel with the rest.
Arrow straight across the stillness, the mourning doves retreat.
Before a gray wall now deep purple, with daylight in defeat.
Noon has now turned to night, as ancient wonder grips us all.
To stay or run is the question, we ask ourselves, so frail, so small.