Misfortune's shadow clung to him when orphaned, still just two,
and foster parents intervened to raise him through the years.
With rod of iron, his 'father' sought to discipline, get through,
but also treat indulgently to lighten woeful fears.
This crazed regime would stir and cause resentment day by day
which led, in turn, to waywardness in gambling and the like,
and, when those losses grew too great, this lad was torn away
from college freedom back to home where hopelessness would strike.
Impoverished, he tried his hand at milit'ry pursuit,
but stamina was lacking when his verse took precedence.
Inspired by the Romantics and those poets of repute,
like Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, Keats, his writing would commence.
His thirst for love consumed him when he chose to wed a child,
his cousin, still just thirteen years, Virginia, was her name -
a wife or 'sister' (who could tell?), he was, it's said, beguiled,
their bond would be a lasting one, surpassing slur and shame.
And all the while, his verse and prose would garner fame and praise:
he penned with skill macabre traits defining Gothic themes;
in death and sorrow, laced with fear, his works would shock and faze -
his anti-transcendental view eschewed folk's mystic dreams.
But, while his wife had given him the love and strength he yearned,
her life would sadly be curtailed at only twenty-four,
and Poe would be distraught and lost, his whole world was upturned,
with alcohol (his bane and crutch), his demons lured him more.
Then, as a tribute, he'd create his best work of them all -
The Raven - then with chilling air would mourn his dear Lenore.*
Its dialogue, twixt man and bird, would hold us in its thrall,
while edge of madness soon was crossed with heartache, Nevermore.*
He rued didactic, preachy verse that stultified the arts.
Instead, let undercurrent flow mid brevity of aim,
with duty, truth should merely serve to take more minor parts,
while beauty be the vital goal - the essence - he'd proclaim.
This modern man was not afraid to breach those social sways,
inventing genres, pushing through the angst of human mind,
and, in that lucid myth, he opened doors to future ways
of viewing life, perverse and true, with artform intertwined.
And, as in life and poetry, his death would then astound,
no record proved disease, the cause, or, worse, that he was killed.
With Poe-esque intrigue, darkly cast, the answer lies unfound -
perhaps an ending aptly set for one who stunned and thrilled?
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