The Shrine

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)


This is your voice;
cutting diamonds,
piercingly soft,


This is your song;
and buried…

These are your words
shed of soul;
wickedly pure,

Apryl Skies 2011


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 loved 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.

Edgar Allan Poe

*   *   *

The Empty Bellows


Whatever would my life become,

had I abandoned my every fear

Suddenly my eyes,

my eyes, so Cassiopeia-clear…


My life before her,

a sinking ship

without the velvet of her lips

Wasting away on a stagnant,

slack-eyed tide,

no waves nor wind

for this vessel to ride…


Should oceans

become my rain,

shall I pour out

my every pain

into a tiny glass

and drink it during

Midnight mass?


And if I would

have stood before her

to confess my every sorrow,

felt deeply,

both soul and morrow

Would she, could she

climb inside my lock

to become my only key…


Her voice a softly,

                   ocean breeze~


And then;

would we gaze down

upon mountains,

or drink from endless,

flowing fountains…


Would we tread upon

the flowers of clouds

breaking the cocoon

of all our doubts…


With her lips

to mine in vain,

Inhaling the softness

of her frame

and drinking the blood

of sinful saints

Will we spin the axis

of our fates?


And when these

empty bellows roar,

alone I take this final tour

and be far more

content in death

for I am not

an unexpected guest

and gazing down

from this paradise

are the twinkling stars

of my Lover’s eyes...


My Dearest living,

there is no heartbreak


for merrily our souls

will dance while the tired

sun falls down

and oh such shameful revelry,

my sweetest, Annabel Lee

not even when

my dreams seduce

have I ever felt so free…



*Inspired by Spirits Of The Dead, Annabel Lee & Dreams         

                 ~By Edgar Allan Poe*


Apryl Skies © 2009

A. Skies © 2009

A. Skies © 2009

"...insatiable; the affinity of Amber-eyed graveyard goats for the gluttonous graze of wilted bouquets..."

Excerpt: Cemetery Flowers
~By Apryl Skies
Recent Events

I was recently contacted by Irish poet Tomás Ó Cárthaigh inquiring about the photo above, Goats in a Graveyard, taken in Paia Maui. This kind and talented Sir asked for my blessing in that he write a poem inspired by this photo. The outcome is the video below... a timeless gift...

Go raibh maith agat...

~Apryl Skies~

Goats In A Graveyard