Alone

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In a few nights, the clock would strike midnight.
The museum would become still.
Those dark eyes would open.
And I would have to find a gentle way to tell Edgar Allan Poe that death had not silenced him.

It had only kept him from hearing the applause. Mr. Poe, you famously wrote this poem about the fact that you always felt alone–

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—

Mr. Poe, I would like you to think that you are not alone anymore.

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