My Edgar of the forevermore verses, as the flight of the hunting bats begin into the chilling star-flecked twilight, I rejoice the ages cannot separate my devotion to you, the deepest catacombs of my dark mind testifies of my mourning's timelessness, it tolls of a melancholy in my psyche that resounds stronger than the cathedral bells of a slow, slow dirge, of ebony plumes on ageless black horses as they pull the carriage bearing the casket in the dusky funerary procession, Edgar, is this your funeral, or mine? Your wracked spirit always in your eventide life's penning of madness, of haunting ravens, of maidens, your young wife, Virginia, taken by Death's cruel beauty, I read your works, your macabre works, in this flickering candlelit room with an elder's heartsick soul, as your golden sparks of immortality my eyes behold in your writings of passion, my cherish of your mystery, beckons to my desolate soul. My Edgar, your eyes cannot hide the tides of onyx grief, as I still live with a lover's heart of youth, crimson roses and cognac on your frosty grave, how my nightfall dreams wish they had been placed there by me, my loss so grievous of not conversing with you, the Westminster Burial Grounds can never contain your genius, your legacy, your starlight inspiration, so infinite in my fathomless shadows of sorrows. ~