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 ...
The Yellow Cup
Her tiny hands held the mug, fingers traced each crack and scrape.
Twas rare to find it out of sight for two moments in a day.
Worn was the handle, near vanished the rose, a mere hint of pink inlaid.
but the cup of yellow still held its' brilliance, as if by angels made.
Was it true the story of a mother lost and the depth of her dear sorrow?
Empty cup waiting for a yesterday, yet too full to hold tomorrow.