In the shadows of a moonlit night,
Where whispers of the past take flight,
Lies the tale of a soul, forlorn,
Edgar Allan Poe, forever mourned.

His quill, now still, once danced with dread,
Crafting worlds where darkness spread,
A master of the macabre art,
His legacy, a haunting heart.

Beneath the raven’s mournful cry,
The echoes of his words still fly,
In chambers where his spirit roams,
Among the tombs, his timeless poems.

Though death has claimed his mortal frame,
His verses burn an endless flame,
In every line, his essence breathes,
A testament to the life he leaves.