In shadows deep where whispers cease to flow,
Lies Edgar’s soul in silent, somber rest.
The raven’s cry, a mournful, echoing woe,
Marks the night with grief upon its crest.

The midnight dreary cloaks his final breath,
As darkness wraps around his weary frame.
In cryptic tales, we find the touch of death,
And linger in the echoes of his name.

Through gothic doors, his spirit softly treads,
Past memories of sorrow and despair.
The haunted halls where once his mind had bled,
Now hold the whispers of a solemn prayer.

Eternal sleep beneath the moon’s cold gaze,
Where dreams and nightmares intertwine as one.
In Poe’s own words, we find a cryptic maze,
Forever lost until the night is done.