Twas a dark night in February, date sixteen,

The year as well,

That I witnessed the true madness,

Of my inner hell.

I sat there at my desk,

And began to type away,

A poem about a lover,

Who had subsequently ran away.

I tried to express my emotion,

Of sheer disdain and hate,

But no words came to mind,

My canvas remained blank.

So I got up and paced the room,

To open up my head,

To those confidential emotions,

That always went unsaid.

I stared out my window,

To the immense darkness of the night,

And thought of ways to calm my mind,

To be at one and write,

So I went out and smoked some grass, in the dying light,

My choice of music, a dismal score,

As I began to remember a poem for a lost lover,

A lover named Lenore.

Taws’ long ago I heard this poem,

That now had stumbled into my troubled head,

A fairy tale from childhood,

My mother would tell each night as I lay in bed.

A very dreary poem, I heard again once after,

In the years that had past,

By a poet stricken with insanity,

That surpassed that of a Third Reich English class.

I was brought back to reality,

By winter’s chilling grip,

To the grips of my insanity,

And my depressing fit.

So I began to stare into the night sky,

And examine this mysterious Lenore,

Beloved by a tragic poet,

Who could hold her nevermore.

This poem it was enticing,

Such a depressing bliss,

That could only have been matched,

By the nights veil of darkness.

I kept reciting in my mind,

The poem of such a tragic matter,

Retuned from a dusty old memory,

My curiosity driving me mad as a hatter.

The ghost of this poem did haunt me,

A spirit of a mental state,

As I continued with my ponder,

And the hour did grow late.

Suddenly I let out a fairly loud cry,

The realization hit me like a knife,

This beautiful work of art,

Was a mirror of my miserable life.

The poet had been stricken,

By the loss of his soulmate,

A tragedy that had afflicted him,

A travesty so great.

Such a sadness was inside of me as well,

My soul it did plague and rot,

As I lay prisoner in this cold unforgiving hell,

The one they call Vermont.

Twas in this hell my madness,

Had reached it final extent,

And I found the eternal pain,

That I shall not forget.

I was the reincarnation of this poet,

Who soul was consumed with such black,

To replace the warmth of loves embrace,

That our hearts did lack.

For like the poet,

Who wicked sadness he could not escape,

My sickness it was driving me,

Spiraling toward my dismal fate.

For like the writer of this depressing scripture,

Who yearns for his beloved Lenore,

I stood here pleading my lover,

But all that came was a whisper,

Like the ash of a cigarette,

An opinion on those memories,

Of those happy days that I had spent,

In the past without a care,

Adrift from the thought of my souls despair,

As I stood there calling for my precious Lenore,

There came a solemn whisper of her name,

A silence, then nevermore…