Today marks the day that one-hundred-and-eighty-one years ago, Edgar Allan Poe left us. His words echo down through the ages and resonate like the sounding of bells. An inspiration to every gothic horror enthusiast, he died penniless and never saw the full bloom of his life’s work. He struggled in life and left too little behind. He was my first literary inspiration.
I remember sneaking out of the young readers’ section of our library and finding his writing. I remember beseeching the librarian to check it out even though I wasn’t in the appropriate age range. The words wove in a way that wrapped them around my young heart and showed me the artistry that I forever chase after. He took me to dark corners, and his words twisted my impressionable mind with their unflinching impression of the human animal.
His words still haunt as they parade in the back of my mind. His works tell me that I still am lacking and have much to aspire too. His influence over me remains, in the way I look at every written word I see, my own, and that of others. But the words, his last, are the ones I most cling too. I say them often, in hopes they are heard. Lord, help my poor soul.