The Glow

Later upon a midnight dark, my heart was heavy, soul was stark,
I pondered Edgar’s “Raven” while I paced the floorboards to and fro—
While I walked there, wild and aimless, blaming hardship on the blameless,
Suddenly there came a faceless nameless entity aglow.
“’Tis a ghost or specter, surely; I assume this from its glow—
Ah! This much, at least, I know!”
I think back and do remember this took place in late November;
I was on one of my benders, suffering from angst and woe.
I took a few sips of Chablis; felt the coldest air ‘round me—
Peered out my window, past the tree—spied him standing in the snow.
It was him—but how could it be? How came he to stand in snow?
He’d been killed, this much I know!
But there he was, my old friend, the friend whose life I’d caused to end—
And then his spirit did ascend to my window very slow.
I jumped back then, clearly shaken; rubbed my eyes, was I mistaken?
Pinched myself, tried to awaken—could I be sleeping? Oh, no!
I had full possession of my senses; I wasn’t sleeping—oh, no!
I was awake, this I know!
He stood there still, barely moving, with a look so disapproving,
Put a damper on my boozing, on my Chablis and Bordeaux—
I fought my fear, tried to be brave; tried to discern him friend or knave—
I asked how came he from the grave I’d put him in long ago?
“This cannot be! How are you free? I murdered you long ago!
Killed you dead, this much I know!”
Riven with guilt, unforgiven, “How come you among the livin’?”
He just stood, no answer given—his silence quite apropos.
I admit that I was craven as I stood there in my haven,
I equated Edgar’s “Raven” with this ghost in my chateau.
“How can this be? How came you free? How came you to my chateau?
You’re dead! You’re dead! This, I know!”
Still he floated, ever glowing; no emotion his face showing—
Never showing signs of going—he just stood there in his glow.
“Is this revenge, or some sick joke?” I asked him as I took a poke—
I poked him in his spectral cloak, but my hand passed through his glow.
My hand passed through, my elbow too; my dead friend was naught but glow!
He was a ghost, this I know!
The wind outside, fiercely blowing; he stayed quiet, only glowing;
Left me ignorant, unknowing, “Tell me what I want to know!”
I was nervous, I was addled. There, I stuttered; there I prattled.
Confused, half-drunk, I was rattled, and outside the wind did blow.
Blowing, gusting, in a fury; how that wicked wind did blow!
“Tell me! Tell me! I must know!”
I was perplexed, I tried to think. I quickly poured myself a drink;
“If you are dead, why don’t you stink? Can you speak, or only glow?”
His inaction was quite daunting; it was clear that he was flaunting
His ability at haunting and ability to glow …
Glowing, showing me no mercy—oh my! How bright he did glow!
“Please tell me, I need to know!”
Though his presence there was shocking, I sat in my rocker, rocking,
With his silence, he was mocking, a prolonged, ghostly tableau.
But he remained there, unblinking; no whispered sounds, no chains clinking,
Against reasonable thinking; “Tell me why you’re here, or go!”
He did not answer, he just glowed … glowed … and neither did he go,
Changing everything I know …
Never more nervous, I was tense; in quite a state of deep suspense—
This apparition made no sense—I gulped down some more Bordeaux.
He just floated, hovered, glowing; apprehension swiftly growing,
Nary a sign was he showing he’d tell what I asked to know—
What I needed, what I wanted, everything I longed to know.
“Tell me now! I need to know!”
I succumbed to mental illness, drinking in the obscene stillness—
Violent winds took on a shrillness—I cursed my specter and Poe.
I shouted at him glowing there, “Stay here or leave— I do not care!
But you’ll not drive me from my lair; not ghost, or raven, or Poe!
I’ll stay and drink here in my chair! Drink to you and Mister Poe!
I’ll drink my wine, this I know!”
“I’ll drink myself into a fit, I’ll die right here, right where I sit!
This rocking chair I shall not quit! I’ll drink ‘til I die and glow!”
I cursed my friend and drank my wine, I did not stop to bathe or dine;
There I remained in my confine watching my ghostly friend glow.
I sat rocking and drinking—still, unblinking—and now I glow …
I glow, and finally know!
Last Modified: April 11, 2014 at 08:40 am
© ThePoetDarkling – all rights reserved

Published by: The Poet Darkling

The Poet Darkling is an award-winning poet, lyricist, author, editor, and freelance writer. She is currently working on her fifth poetry and monologue anthology, as well as her memoirs. In 2013, The Poet Darkling had the distinct honor of writing an introduction and closing poem for the short story anthology, “Broken Spokes along the Way,” by author Vance R. Farrell. She is also an esteemed member of several writer’s groups, including Writers-Network, and All Poetry, and was featured in the All Poetry anthology “Rewrite Sunlight” in 2017. Born in Chicago, Illinois, The Poet Darkling currently resides in Northeast Tennessee with her family, her pet black widow spider (whom she calls “Walter”), her imaginary muse (whom she hasn’t named), and her many diverse personalities. Since her childhood, The Poet Darkling has survived all manner of physical and sexual abuse, as well as mental illness, drug addiction, and long-term homelessness, and her poetry reflects this. With a steady voice, diverse subject matter, and the singular intent of helping others not only survive the darkness, but thrive there. The Poet Darkling appeals to a wide range of readers. She speaks for the traumatized soldier, the weary mother, the confused teen, the abandoned senior, the disenfranchised minority, the serial killer, and anyone who has suffered heartbreak, addiction, abuse, mental illness, and even the sting of death – and all in perfect rhyme and meter…or not. Following her own doctrine of “Live first; learn later,” The Poet Darkling is currently working on her M.A. in Creative Writing/English, with a concentration in Poetry at Southern New Hampshire University, where she also earned her B.A. in Creative Writing, with a concentration in Poetry and a minor in Professional Writing, graduating summa cum laude in 2017. The Poet Darkling is proud to be a member of the Sigma Tau Delta (Alpha Pi Psi) and Alpha Sigma Lambda (Sigma Psi) honor societies. When she is not writing, or plotting her bid for Poet Laureate of the United States, The Poet enjoys talking to herself, wandering around aimlessly and poking dead critters with sticks.

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