##Edgar Allan Poe
Just for fun! In this world of non-compliant tragedy…a little levity!
DEATH, to the dead for evermore
A King, a God, the last, the best of friends –
Whene’er this mortal journey ends
Death, like a host, comes smiling to the door;
Smiling, he greets us, on that tranquil shore
Where neither piping bird nor peeping dawn
Disturbs the eternal sleep,
But in the stillness far withdrawn
Our dreamless rest for evermore we keep.
For as from open windows forth we peep
Upon the night-time star beset
And with dews for ever wet;
So from this garish life the spirit peers;
And lo! as a sleeping city death outspread,
Where breathe the sleepers evenly; and lo!
After the loud wars, triumphs, trumpets, tears
And clamour of man’s passion, Death appears,
And we must rise and go.
Soon are eyes tired with sunshine; soon the ears
Weary of utterance, seeing all is said;
Soon, racked by hopes and fears,
The all-pondering, all-contriving head,
Weary with all things, wearies of the years;
And our sad spirits turn toward the dead;
And the tired child, the body, longs for bed.
#Robert Louis Stevenson
As vast as it seemed, it had only been a dream.
Murky and vague, I awoke and had become…
everything my mother had hoped I would be.
The joy in her eyes had been a prosthetic.
The sins she had always shared…
were no longer kinetic.
Slowly fading from sight…
Freedom from our bondage, once again, turned pathetic.
Before this delusion slithered from my specter.
I caressed sleep from my eyes.
And, awareness back to a falling figure, fetal on the floor.
With less came more.
Disappointment lay beside me…
as it had, a thousand times before.
My awakening had been just a dream within a dream.
A door within a door.
From the, getting gone, polyester blanket…of another’s memories.
An apparition approached with no words to spare.
A vacant troth with not a single pitcher to fill her.
In the restraint of ghostly disarray.
A mongrel for written word…
I had nothing to say.
So much had been our way of caring without sharing.
A home-built for show.
Rustic pardoning of stain and cedar.
Secluded, even when wrapped in Christmas garland.
Innocence, here…had been given no pardon.
I could not then.
And, cannot still.
Contend with a ghost so frail.
Caught up in the pinnacles of life, I am but a mistaken void.
A template for those who neglect…
Or, simply, annoyed.
A fragrant weed behind a nameless graveyard.
Someone ghosts can yield and avoid.
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