POE

 Dark and brooding, turns the wheel of words,

So gothic and so true.
Of eyes ‘neath heavy brows – a gaze which mirrors madness too;

The coldest winter brings a plague, of blood and breath so weak,
But nothing stays him from the pen
As ravens reach their peak.

Though he decries his lot in life,
And soldiers on despite the pain
Of others;
love is not a reason to
Be rid of all the gain.

But herein lies the problem:
Though he chooses to ignore,
There is no heart in writing
When it beats beneath the floor.