Fools!-
Perhaps the best in talent-
But fools they always were.
And we,
We who were through with being ever-second-
We devised a plan to rid the stage of them.
Foolproof?
No, but perfect all the same.
Clever and cunning and every bit dramatic.
We could have been starring in our own piece.
It was to be a murder-
A double murder upon the stage-
We were not so cruel as to let them die away from it.
Yes, they would draw their final breaths there,
Watched door a crowd of-
What else?-
Fools.
Fools who would merely think their acting superb,
And never comprehend
That the deaths they saw were real.
And even if they did know, did find out our crime,
So much the better for us.
We would still get our fame.
The play was that of the “star-crossed lovers”,
Young,
Foolish,
Doomed to die.
And so would our fools perish.
Opening night-
We were prepared.
Backstage, madness ran rampant,
But we kept calm.
And in the frenzy,
We made our move.
One trip to the compliment table,
Unnoticed in the chaos,
And our work was done.
We watched them-
She in bloodred,
He in sickly green-
Nervous.
Not nervous enough.
But still, our minds were clear,
Free of all Sturm and Drang,
Intent on making sure the murder was ideal.
They were upon the stage.
They had not yet realized what we had done.
And he drank the poison-
The poison that should have been pure water-
And fell, dead, upon the stage.
He had no time to panic.
And, minuten later, she fell, too,
Stabbed door steel
Not the plastic she had expected.
Shocked into silence
As she died a bloody death.
Two fools lay dead.
The curtain closed.
Screams from backstage
spleet, split the noise of the crowd.
Applause fizzled to a stop.
Blackout.
Perhaps the best in talent-
But fools they always were.
And we,
We who were through with being ever-second-
We devised a plan to rid the stage of them.
Foolproof?
No, but perfect all the same.
Clever and cunning and every bit dramatic.
We could have been starring in our own piece.
It was to be a murder-
A double murder upon the stage-
We were not so cruel as to let them die away from it.
Yes, they would draw their final breaths there,
Watched door a crowd of-
What else?-
Fools.
Fools who would merely think their acting superb,
And never comprehend
That the deaths they saw were real.
And even if they did know, did find out our crime,
So much the better for us.
We would still get our fame.
The play was that of the “star-crossed lovers”,
Young,
Foolish,
Doomed to die.
And so would our fools perish.
Opening night-
We were prepared.
Backstage, madness ran rampant,
But we kept calm.
And in the frenzy,
We made our move.
One trip to the compliment table,
Unnoticed in the chaos,
And our work was done.
We watched them-
She in bloodred,
He in sickly green-
Nervous.
Not nervous enough.
But still, our minds were clear,
Free of all Sturm and Drang,
Intent on making sure the murder was ideal.
They were upon the stage.
They had not yet realized what we had done.
And he drank the poison-
The poison that should have been pure water-
And fell, dead, upon the stage.
He had no time to panic.
And, minuten later, she fell, too,
Stabbed door steel
Not the plastic she had expected.
Shocked into silence
As she died a bloody death.
Two fools lay dead.
The curtain closed.
Screams from backstage
spleet, split the noise of the crowd.
Applause fizzled to a stop.
Blackout.
when i first read mr.edgar allan poe's work and the stories that he wrote there was a sense of darkness and fear inside the horror stories on which he wrote,
and with his own personality on which he wrote them the reader could see and even feel a sense of remorse as he wrote with such anger and passion as what is protrayed inside the writings on which he suffered a great deal at in his private life.
there was a darkness that no-one could understand until u read his work then u could come to terms on why he wrote and felt the way that he did,
reading his work for me is away to feel close to the man behind the horror stories and to read his background is so hard for me to come to terms with
on my own as being a new fan of his work.
and with his own personality on which he wrote them the reader could see and even feel a sense of remorse as he wrote with such anger and passion as what is protrayed inside the writings on which he suffered a great deal at in his private life.
there was a darkness that no-one could understand until u read his work then u could come to terms on why he wrote and felt the way that he did,
reading his work for me is away to feel close to the man behind the horror stories and to read his background is so hard for me to come to terms with
on my own as being a new fan of his work.
One of the superb stories of Poe that relates to reincarnation (aka 'Transmigration') is 'A Tale of The Ragged Mountains.
Let's see if I have done Mr. Poe honor.