Once upon a midnight dreary...
I sit in my room with the lopsided english book between my legs. The curtains quiver gently, protesting the gentle night breeze. Words criss-cross on the page, paper caught in an inky net. Sparked on an inspiration, I begin to read out loud.
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
I love the sound, the rhythm, the way the "ap, ap, ap" so aptly describes the tapping. I speed up with it, caught in the barely rhyming, speeding timing, the brilliantly woven words of Poe.
Suddenly, there's the raven, eyes with all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, and I panic. The poem is suddenly all too real in the shadows, and I stop speaking. The sudden silence kills the spell, and the words fall from the air and rearrange themselves back on the page, caught again in their silent net.
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