I wrote this 4 years ago and till this day it’s still my pride & joy

The trump card of anything I have ever written and I’m specifically posting it now after I have extremely enjoyed the movie “The Raven” which has awaken all my memories and brought me reminiscing about my cynical morbid idol in literature…






A tribute…



To a fierce author a person who suffered a harsh life and deceased very early.


To a gentleman who gave the world the creeps.



Poet, father of macabre fiction, and author of such Gothic works as “The Raven,” “The Murders in the Rue Morgue”,” “The Pit and the Pendulum,” and “Tell-Tale Heart,” His troubled life and debilitating addiction to opium were a reason how he deliberately became all so remarkable.





Poe in his professional life exhibited a willingness to depict the darker side of humanity, his private life, too, was troubled. He invited criticism when he married his 13-year-old cousin that died 5 years shortly after marriage in addition to other messed up relationships,marriages and his suffering from alcoholism.

till he died by the age of 40 leaving a legacy of fine literature for generations coming to know about and indulge.

One of the all-time great authors though he never lived to see fame.



With all my most respect and appreciation to your remarkable work that truly was legendary, I dedicate this to you….









Walking solemnly through forest thick and mangled, a beauty of faded hazel eyes behind dark hair entangled



A youth with skin of pale complexion, only warmed by the moons reflection

Curious of her lunar friend, followed towards its hopeful end.

As it peaked from behind gray clouds, on this eternal midnight of wolvey howls


She did upon an open section, A section which in all sights direction,

Did expand into a patch of pumpkins.


Winter necks far and wide, from each corner side to side

And through this patch the maiden wandered, how far the moon she did ponder

‘Till she came weak and weary, Stopping before a figure dreary

A scarecrow with patchwork dress and stitched top hat, under which she relieved and sat,


All a while wondering at the creatures bleak projection, gathered her breath and asked a question

“Scarecrow, why do you look so sad?”


Silence was its reply, leaving her to sit and sigh

“Do all these melons here about object, and deny you your respect,

of which are owed through watchful eyes, repressing birds of their demise?”


Silence was its reply, erecting herself she did come nigh,

Inspecting closer this figures frame, the beauty asked “what’s your name?”

“Sentinel of this garden you do seem, of that I title you and properly deem!”

“Named you are as I did so, but mine of which you do not know,

And so to you I will report, was given the name of Lost Lenore.”


At which the figure gave reply, leaving guest half petrified.

“A name to which my mind shall store, the lovely name of Lost Lenore.”






The words he again to himself muttered, after which he did sputter,

“Though sentinel a proper name may seem, respectfully I am the Pumpkin King,

To what pleasure do you entreat herein, myself and all my pumpkin kin?”


Curiosity took in her terrors place, and about him circles she did trace,

Looking about with her faded hazel eyes, both taking him in to scrutinize,

How odd to see a talking scarecrow, What magic this was she did not know,

Her purpose she did confess, “I was looking for surcease of loneliness,

In this world I was brought on in, having seen only this night,

All alone I coldly stood, in the middle of this entangling wood.


Not long the moon began to whisper “Lenore!”, and so my feet were called on towards,

Through the woods forever calling, calling my name “Lost Lenore!”,

Until upon your lonely figure, I did sit to restore my vigor.



And once upon you the moon was silent, and since then it called my name no more.”

At this she ended, with question originally intended,

“Scarecrow, why do you look so sad?”

“My fair maiden, for though with pumpkins this place is fully laden,

Of no one else have I to share my time, and of company my heart does truly pine!

But here you are so fair and dark, a feminine reflection of this place you walk.”


At this he began to unhitch himself, and sat before the girl,

“Please sit down and have a spell, a nice discourse will do us well,

Beauty will you stay awhile, talk to me and make me smile?”


And so they sat, both quite enrapt,

Talking to one another,

Talking for the longest time, talking beneath the moons lunar shine,

‘Till the girl did announce that she did love him, and reached out to gently touch him,

But at this he could not ignore, for if they touch her heart would beat no more,


The scarecrow was a cursed thing, and this would lead to her demise,

So with gloved hand her touch he stopped, explaining that which he wanted he must deny,

But before he could give the full report, her lonely heart leapt forward consumed by her amour,


Kissing him upon the lips, with meeting hands and fingertips,

To which this wondrous gain, did extinguish her eternal flame,

‘Till she fell upon his breast, beating heart coming to its rest,

Lastly did the Lost Lenore, of the pumpkin king implore,

“Scarecrow, why do you look so sad?”












~A spoken word is a moment. A written word is eternal~


Moe R.