* * *
Last night I ran, looking for Annabelle, Annabelle, my Annabelle Lee
I ran in the woods, moon as my guide,
a weathered pine shack, one-hinge door,
its creak beckoning; overhead a cry shrieked:
Never more, Never more.
I stood, shivering, looking for Annabelle, Annabelle, my Annabelle Lee;
a shadow skid by the windows, scratching at branches,
still I yearned for Annabelle, Annabelle, my Annabelle Lee;
my heart beat close to my ear, a near deafening din,
as ghoulish breath warmed my neck,
the hurricane lamp flickered, creaky hinge broke,
door fell to the ground, wind hissed through the trees;
the raven cried: Never more, Never more.
it was you who entered: my ghoulish lover,
you caressed my nape with your stickey, sweet slime,
your musky scent I so loved in my salad days when once we roamed the earth,
convinced no other lovers felt this strong,
for we were immortal in all-night orgiastic bacccanalias, kissing hourslong, tasting each other's fruit,
then eating the flesh of the living and the near dead,
til before dawn we left.
Now in the grey-pink dawn, I grasped my bedsheets soaked with sweat:
my sweat, my cold, hard sweat;
I reached for you, your scent still lingering from years' past,
your sheet still warm, warmed with others' blood,
stained from your one misdeed, your one bad deed that did undo me forever;
For I am Annabelle Lee, that Annabelle Lee, the one for whom I've searched these long, long years, that you so coldly murdered here long, long ago;
I can no longer shift my shape between you and me, can no longer double for you and I, my ghoulish lover or me.
I am stuck forever in a misty dream scape - real to no one but the haunted and haunting wind, this cruelly cold, dark-shadowed night.
* * *
See Edgar Allen Poe's Annabelle Lee, upon which this was very loosely inspired. I read this poem many times when I was 12 but not since, though I have thought of it, often. Also channeled here are Poe's The Raven and The Tell-Tale Heart.


Comments: 27
Thanks all.
Speaking of Poe, I am just finishing "Fancies and Goodnights" a collection of short stories by John Collier, many of which remind me of Poe.
Michael Chabon said of Collier, "I take my delight in the dark silky stuff of his prose style, and the shock lies in his faultless execution and in his mastery of craft. No short story writer has ever bit more sharply or wrote more gracefully than John Collier."
John: Very interesting about Collier. I will have to take a look.
Bravo for you, my dear friend.
Angela, thank you.
Blaine, thank you.
HERE