Paula, You Are My All
An empty soul sat to the gloomy atmosphere, not a sound took tune
Taking time back to the cold times of Sir Edgar Poe, and his lonesome words
It was not of a raven that the Darkpoet wrote of
Peeking closely into the shadow of luck, one could see the river of tears that formed down below
A sight it was, for his feather danced upon the papyrus that gave voice to his heart
A scent filled the quiet room, where many ghosts held hands and paid tribute to his work
Many feelings swept across his heart, and again the feather danced on the fresh paper
Webs upon webs, many spiders felt the evolution of his soul, alas he wrote to his better side
It was a wooden desk in which his paper sat upon
Termites infested the broken home to look old and fragile
Yet he paid no mind for his feather kept on swinging from side to side
Time walked, at moments it to crwaled by
The room now was overtaken by the srtrong odor of ink on hot papyrus
A light took life, it was the glow of his heart
All that stood to his sight were not visible in his eyes
For he wrote his heart out for the girl of his dreams
She sat upon the throne of his very soul
Her beauty and spirit reigned his vision
He wrote poetry, "Paula my precious love...."
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