Description
1815 Edgar was 6 and on a ship heading to England from Boston only 4 years after the death of his mother. Haunted as boy, his writing began early and by age 11 was claimed by J.H. Clarke that "Poe wrote genuine poetry: the boy was born a poet."
This is what I imagine for him...
In chambers vast, where shadows lie, like specters draped in gloom,
This ancient pile, with mournful sigh, doth whisper tales of tomb.
I wake with start, a clammy sweat, my heart a frantic drum,
A spectral form, with eyes like jet, has come, oh, come, has come!
No longer fair, the face of mirth, with laughter light and bright,
Now pallid skin, of withered earth, and eyes that pierce the night.
Her shroud, once white, a tattered guise, that chills me to the bone,
A fleshless hand, with hollow sighs, to claim me as her own.
She beckons near, a ghostly breath, a voice like winter's sting,
"Come, Edgar young, shed tears of death, with me thy sorrows fling.
The shadows dance, a spectral throng, within this haunted hall,
Here, with the dead, thou dost not belong, but answer to my call."
I clutch the sheets, a whimper breaks, the terror holds me tight,
The floorboards groan, the cold wind wakes, and fills the room with fright.
I scream a name, a helpless plea, to chase the vision far,
But still she nears, relentlessly, a skeletal, cold star.
Then, with a crash, the window yields, a rooster's crow rings clear,
The spectral form in morning chills, the room begins to shake.
The nightmare fades, a lingering dread, a cold sweat on my brow,
But oh, the fear, it cannot shed, of that cold form, somehow.