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Edgar And Annabel
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Edgar And Annabel
A poem dedicated to the late writer/poet and his one and only love, Annabel Lee
[522 words]
Christian Loche
[December 2010]
[email protected]
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Edgar And Annabel
Christian Loche

              edgar and annabell

        A man, a myth, or a mystery?
Some would say all three.
But sometimes a human mystery,
can hold more in tow than the eye can see.

       Handsome enough, no doubt of that,
but preferred drink to women,
nightly splurges, curbing erotic urges,
numbness locking semen in.

     She came into his life, a pretty woman,
eyes like a doe's, but bigger,
 her face belyed her secret condition,
along with her vim and vigor.

       The hellbound doctrine she found frightening,
like being struck by a bolt of stupified lightning,
 the prognosis simple and perfectly clear,
she would not live throughout the year.

      An ego hard, he drank his cash,
as the funeral marche's cymbals clashed,
crying inside, but outside grim,
belying the mysteries inside him.

      At daylight he'd cry by her cold damp grave,
at nights becoming love's dark slave,
oil lamps stained with tears and soot,
while rats and roaches ran underfoot.

      Lyrical prose filled his prosaic life,
his mind a cell of sweat and strife,
ghosts, goblins, cadavers galore,
were his world forever more.

      Tales of decaying flesh and bone,
their melodies swell and soar,
 he was no longer really alone,
with his pen, just beyond death's door.

     One night in his spinning room,
reduced to a drunken clown,
swallowed by the belly of evil,
his world came crashing down.

     A living nightmare, real life dreams,
empty rooms, filled with screams,
 eaten alive by rats and mice,
his remains infested with maggots and lice.

     His flesh pardoned of it's flesh,
reeking of a putrified heart and brain,
it stank of a long lost love,
of some loveless bastard paid in blood,
lying in the bed he'd made.

         She had reckoned to be without him for no reason.
He was now a devil reincarnate,
who's horns had been retracted too long,
she was a lost soul who'd survived marriages, miscarriages,
her body eaten, while her tormentors sang a lustful song.

        Pig roasted, in a blood-red reeking sauce,
shrieking sounds, unlike her dead lover's prose and tales of fright,
sounds of Dante, Faust,
all souls denying sin, craving love but lost.
A rotten apple tempting men to bite.

       But it was she who bit until men bled,
after leading them unsuspectingly to bed,
 there to be eaten intensly slow,
within her great and secret show.

      Although charred black she shone,
a dark jewel of rich appetite,
 shrouded in a smoky mist,
a harlot, a jezebel, a fetishist,
horned, hooved, and hided.

    Her new look intoxicating,
inspiring his hell given gift,
he began to write new words drafted in blood,
his firey pen moving swift.

    The cobwebbed attic of his mind,
became a macabre opera of necrophilia,
 him becoming the Mozart of madness,
her the queen of decaying memoribilia.

     All his words drafted in blood of sinners,
a dedication to his eternal bride,
all in the name of love it happened,
the black void known as their love.

Together they knocked on love's high gate once again, but death's barrier stood standing there.


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© 2010 Christian Loche
December 2010

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