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A poem I wrote last year, as I sat on the brick steps of the Westminster Burial Ground in Baltimore, MD. With Shadow of the Raven as my constant soundtrack, I visited Poe's old home, the hospital where he died, and at last his grave, where I penned this, and slipped a few homages into my rhyme scheme.

I should be happy to report

That bats and spiders have their sport,

And ancient ravens hold their court

At Edgar's grave,

And that the sky is ever cloudy,

Grey as the stony banks of Claudy,

And all dress is drear and dowdy

At Edgar's grave.

Would that flowers grow black only,

Dogs call the moon uncommonly,

A black cat sits, silent, lonely,

At Edgar's grave,

And that silence lays unbroken

And the stillness gives no token;

Not a single word is spoken

At Edgar's grave.

But the air is sweet and sunlit,

Any sorrow felt is secret,

Bluebirds sing and fly about it,

Dear Edgar's grave,

And the scene is quite enchanted

At this place by horror haunted

People scurry past undaunted

By Edgar's grave.

To them, it must be commonplace,

This sacred, enshrined, holy place,

This casting of the long-dead face

At Edgar's grave,

But to me, this hour is hallowed

And my face is somber, sallowed

In this moment I am allowed

At Edgar's grave.

So let me say that inspiration,

Forceful as a tyrant nation

Compels me to write this creation

At Edgar's grave,

And that a thousand different notions

Opiate as a gypsy's potions

Flood my mortal mind like oceans

At Edgar's grave,

And that I cannot comprehend

The twist of fate, the pure godsend

That brought my journey to its end

At Edgar's grave,

For I am standing in the place

Where he, who once bore this cast face

Is lying in the arms of Grace
At Edgar's grave.