In the shadowed corners of a weary heart,
Where whispers of sorrow softly play,
The raven’s call echoes, a chilling art,
Guiding Poe to his eternal stay.

A quill dipped in the ink of despair,
Penned tales of darkness, shadow, and night,
In chambers where no light dared to dare,
He wandered through realms of endless fright.

His dreams, a tapestry of gothic tales,
Woven with threads of mystery and fear,
In silence, the midnight hour unveils,
The haunting presence of death drawing near.

Yet in this gloom, a beauty profound,
A legacy of words that softly weep,
In every verse, his spirit unbound,
In death, as in life, his secrets keep.