Insomnia, thou punctual ghast,
clicking thy bones in time so fast—
how dost thou pace my hollow halls,
counting each drop, the midnight calls?
A Folgers’ Pentecostal hymn,
a blackened brew—so thick, so grim—
each splash a psalm, each steam a sigh,
a bitter Host, I slurp and cry.
The cup—a chalice, cracked and lean,
holds liquid ghosts in oily sheen,
and every sip, a whispered prayer,
to gods who do not hear nor care.
The kettle hums a dirge so low,
the counter ticks its Nevermo—
and still the drip, the drip, the drip,
plays Satan’s lullaby *on lip.
So pour me, Love, one final draught,
that I might sleep—or laugh, or rot,
The dark’s a stage, the night’s a cup,
and all the stars are dripping up.
This is a fine homage to one of my favorite writers. Poe was the first one that I really latched onto and was affected by his style. Clearly, the illustration goes with “A Telltale Heart”.
Thank you, Sam..