Poe’s Corner

I know, you think I’m not aware  
of crazy shadows by the stair
you think my life is cool as milk
a Sunday picnic laid on silk,
you think I’m deaf to bleating ghosts
of ancient mourners stiff as posts,
that I am safely bolted in
above the crowd above the din,
to never glimpse the evil sprite
well, know he comes here every night
to mock and threaten with a fetter
and when I drink I see a far better
than you probably surmise –  
the devil with the red hot eyes  
       and his myriad disguises
                wretched master of surprises…
there’s no escape – not anywhere
and peace no longer stands a prayer.




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