I took it all to heart,
each hasty smile and modest gesture,
each syllable of dispassionate word,
to a stage where even I was persuaded,
the rays veiling your face
in perfect symmetry,
were by your own hand.
I coveted you so,
for what were you incapable?
See, you were the rays,
as you were the smile, the gesture,
and the word.
Everything created, then destroyed
by unadulterated hand,
but all only in my sight.
Now I mistrust.
There are words I thought were spoken
and actions I thought displayed—
In fact, illusions and trickery.
But now I see,
how you were a dream,
borne of a skeptic in dangerous reverie.
This guise I had burdened on you,
I all the time unawares,
For it had seemed,
that when I said move
And when I said speak
How does something appearing
so concrete, so essential
be confused with truth?
—to savor another's words
and have them be your own—
Eyes blind and still
having dreams of distant realms—
but forget it.
Happiness has gained on me,
now knowing the best of truth.
Now there is only whisperings
of lost voices.
No more apparitions of smiles,
gestures, or words—
such trivial necessities,
conceived by a fool
in want of an actor.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(13 February 1879 - 2 March 1949)
- Heather Burns
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)