In shadowed corridors where silence weeps,
The raven’s call echoes through the night,
A poet’s soul in eternal sleep,
Drifts gently towards the fading light.

His pen, now stilled, once danced with fire,
Crafting tales of mystery and despair,
Each word a thread in fate’s dark lyre,
Binding souls in its woven snare.

Beneath the moon’s cold, watchful gaze,
The mournful winds bear sorrow’s breath,
Whispering tales of bygone days,
In the quiet shadow of Poe’s death.

Yet in the hearts of those who read,
His legacy lives, a haunting song,
A testament to the soul’s deep need,
For the mysteries where we all belong.