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POEtry

August 26, 2014

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The writing place was empty and still
for the writer was outside, walking the
streets of Baltimore on unsteady legs
 
He wore clothes that were not his own
and he seemed drunk, disoriented, and
listening intently to mortality’s siren call
 
Restlessly lying on his death bed
he was never coherent enough
to say how he came to be
 
in such a dire and disheveled state
Several times, the writer rallied enough
to call out the name “REYNOLDS!”
 
The creator of the first modern
detective story seemingly crafted
a mystery around his own demise
 
The circumstances will never be resolved
And thus the case will never be solved
There is only that one name
 
REYNOLDS
REYNOLDS
and nothing more
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2 Comments
  1. Rich permalink

    Quoth the Raven as well

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