Life of Edgar Allan Poe

In the misty dawn of nineteenth-century days,
A boy named Edgar wandered, lost in twilight’s haze.
Born in Boston, 1809, a life both bright and grim,
His soul was carved from shadows, his mind grew dark and slim.

Orphaned young, with loss his constant muse,
He found his refuge in words, a way to muse.
From Richmond’s streets to Baltimore’s gloom,
He penned tales of terror, of death and doom.

A poet, a critic, haunted by his past,
His stories echo with fears that last.
“The Raven,” croaking, a symbol of despair,
And “The Tell-Tale Heart,” a beating nightmare’s stare.

Love and loss, his constant song,
His life a tragedy, painfully long.
Married young, yet lonely he stayed,
In shadows, his heart slowly frayed.

He drank from the cup of despair and pain,
Fame elusive, drowned in rain.
In 1849, in Baltimore’s gloom,
He vanished into eternal doom.

But his words live on, immortal, deep,
In haunted dreams and midnight’s sleep.
A master of darkness, of horror’s art,
Edgar Allan Poe’s shadow lives in our hearts.