Death stole his talent so young
A genus told through pen and tongue
One of the greatest writers ever known
Although his works were rarely shown
His life filled with pain and sorrow
Yet he still wrote of a joyous tomorrow
He wrote of his misery as well
Stories that only a love-stricken heart could tell
He loved throughout most of his life
Until a sickness stole his wife
Then alcohol became his only love
Since his bride was taken so far above
The whiskey would end his life of pain
A life much lived in vein
“Lord help my poor soul” were his last muttered words
As he joined his raven and other birds.
Amber Green
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poe-2/
