It was in 1949 on January 19th that the infamous Poe toaster visited Westminster Hall and Burying Ground.
To leave a bottle of cognac and three red roses upon Poe's grave.
In this silent homage, to a man whose words have now turned to legend, and whose suffering was the greatest example to be elite, you will be alone.
As art is the coldest mistress that exists.
It's a fitting Gothic scene, that mysterious man in blacks appearance and beautiful tribute.
As any writer can only hope to exist eternally with the hearts of strangers, as we largely die within obscurity.
A grave stands mere paces from the bar where he embraced a final drink.
In a morbid sense of dark comedy titled The Last Stop.
Was it fate you shall remain tethered to the mystery of the Macabre, or the sadness in knowing the brilliance you displayed was mired in tragedy?
As you rest in a city that extinguished your flame to spur a legend of whispered rumors and total strangers to honor your memory.
As your greatest critics lies only served to build to the brilliance that never was intended to be exploited by merchants all using your likeness to sell trinkets.
As you died penniless, as it's said upon your deathbed, when asked, did he have any friends he would like to visit him, he said.
"His best friend would be whomever would blow out his brains with a pistol."
And as I read that quote many miles in a former residence in Richmond, Virginia, within a cramped little room which also held a bottle of cognac from your toaster, I felt only pain, as others merely saw this as a tourist attraction.
Roses and cognac sit now under glass in a home where a legend once stood unappreciated, a fellow editor, a kindred spirit.
Art is a cold mistress indeed.
I stayed there till closing out of respect and maybe out of a shared realization and deeply connected pain.
The bottle's fire holds my passion as great pages hold a spark, those lines shall reverberate endlessly through the fabric of time, as the mysterious stranger and I have much in common, we are merely honored to share a shadow.
Blessed be the nightmares of wings unto a midnight's ritual.
You hold the hope, casting light.
The pages, if that ink is sacrificed to mix with blood.
May just somehow outlive the temporary pain of our existence.
John Patrick Robbins is a Southern Gothic writer his work has appeared in Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Dope Fiend Daily, Piker Press and Disturb The Universe.
His work is often dark and always unfiltered.
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