From His Writing Desk

A coffin’s dark and dreary gloom
Inspires the mind with mystic doom.
   The writer’s then a willing slave
   To dreadful demons of the grave.

The deathly aura of the tomb
Entraps me in my Muse’s womb
And lets Poetic Genius bloom.
That’s the reason I always crave
                                                         a coffin dark.

Mausoleums about me loom;
I tend them with a witch’s broom.
   Hellish spirits my soul deprave;
   There’s nothing here a priest can save.
Thus I write in my dearest room:
                                                         a coffin dark.

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