Taste of Poe

Furbish to effulgence, the words
perfectly naturally, well defined, 
sober words, English words, yet somehow
they resound with choral elegance, 
the echoing timber of chamber choirs
singing Handel on holidays, as the clap
of feet click the floor, like peep frogs
in early spring, clamoring together
emending spiritual calcification, recidivist
tendencies, sparked to glacial firestorms
like stars twinkling in the nevermore.

They taste of Poe, like the sprinkling 
of exotic spices on rarefied delicacies:
tide crabs; or the lily white worms 
of historic estuaries; the canary signpost-
as crumbling edifices speak somberly 
over the dull landscapes of obscure capitals
cormorants burnish the residue of past glories.

Withal, the dragon shines its dusty mirror
its shimmer dazzling, the lofty pile 
of gathered treasure, repeatedly counted,
fails to feed his nagging appetite.

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