What if Poe knew me?

Certainly I am of no cause for concern.
My dear man, can you not see me either?
Am I not a ghost, as you are sir?
Had you known me in your time, would we share drink?

Could we collaborate on prose against the masses?
Come forth of those silly shadows and shake my hand sir.
Learn of me as I have learned of you.
Write with me as if we were still alive.

Smelling the roses that once wilted in our hands.
Those written words we cannot touch anymore.
Those beautiful books that tell of our past.
Will you listen to me sir, I have a thought?

If we could be friends in death,
Than our stories inscribed amongst the living will never end.
Those left to burden the Earth with life,
Can read of our journeys from the afterlife.

If we could only speak to those wicked souls,
Who mock our drink and who mock our former lives.
With their hearts beating and their bodies still breathing.
We have but one hope Mr. Poe...

Here he comes now cloaked in black,
He is hidden in dark creeping slowing past the graves,
Do you see him, do you know of his gestures to you?
Once a year he leaves you drink which you cannot drink

And three roses which you can no longer smell
We can appear to him and make him our ghostwriter
If we frighten him, he may never return,....

What do you say Mr. Poe,
The stories of Death told by the Dead.
Will you write with me?
Now that you know me!




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