So im going to do something new. For the last couple years id write poetry as a hobby, and every now and then id post a piece on here, though theyd be few and far between. Tonight I want to share a piece from a favorite author of mine who heavily influenced what id write. Hope you enjoy, whoever reads. The Conqueror Worm by Edgar Allan Poe Lo! tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, belight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mines, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly - Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Wo! That motley drama - oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its phantom chased for evermore, By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes! - it writhes! - with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And the angels sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued. Out - out are the lights - out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, Man, And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
Posted on: Thu, 21 Aug 2014 01:14:41 +0000
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