Edgar Allan Poe Poetry Alone Novels & Stories

She felt something strong and good inside of her turn its face to the wall and die. “I think that my h-heart is b-breaking,” she said, and thought she had never cried so much, not in such a short amount of time, and it wearied her. Where was Eddie? Where was her husband? Why was she alone with the desert and Stop’s cooling body and this strange man that looked at her with a light in his eyes she now found disconcerting? Why was she alone? Why was she alone?

Am I a person who doesn’t deserve to be loved and is only meant to be alone forever? Why must you go? Why must you leave me all alone? Now I’m scared, and I don’t know what to do. Would I be able to see it? Would I ever hear? Would I be able to feel again? How would I face the world if it means you’re the only one in it? Tell me, how would I ever find the light now that you’re gone? How would I smile again or know-how, if the one thought me how now was gone? How would I find the reason, if the only reason for me to smile is you, you all alone, you that are far gone now?

Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust. I recognized it as a passage from T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land,” certainly a sad choice for an expectant mother. She’d been afraid, and she hadn’t been sure what she’d been afraid of.

She read the poem on the topmost page: Blurry eyes, in a haze, Cry silently near the window, Go without speaking for days, Written words are all that remain. What did I do wrong? You call me a disgrace. Sleep with pretty women, perfect bodies Yet you dare show me that face? I sit by my lonesome, Never a hair out of place, Temptation walks by, You get in the way. Dismay, disarray, I seek comfort, The warmth of a stranger's arms,

He had read it twice. --- He sat alone in his apartment. The specific quality of alone that was different from solitude. Solitude was chosen. It had a quality of peace in it or productivity or the specific rest of a person who had decided to be with themselves for a period and was comfortable with what they found there. This was not solitude. This was the alone of a room that had previously held a performance and from which the audience had departed and the performance was therefore no longer possible and what remained was the performer without the performance and the performer discovering in real time what existed underneath it.

It was gloriously, profoundly ridiculous. In my old life, every minute was accounted for. Reading poetry was considered inefficient, a weakness. Now, it’s a revolutionary act. My father’s schedule would have me in a meeting right now, desperately trying to save face. Instead, I’m listening to beautiful words that have nothing to do with contracts or quarterly reports. This is the true reward of ruin. The stillness. The slowness. The right to be inefficient. I closed my eyes, letting the deep timbre of Igor’s voice wash over me. He read about light, about distance, about the small, intense world two people create together against the indifference of the universe.

“We’ve come because we heard your song. We thought you might be… lonely for a new one.” Prism’s facets shifted, a slow, calculated movement. “Lonely is an illogical emotional state. Our song is efficient. It requires no energy to compose. It is the optimal state.” “Is it?” Kael asked. He knelt, placing a hand on the crystalline ground. He let the echoes of the world flow through him. He saw epochs of flawless, unchanging beauty. He saw no storms, no growth, no decay. Just existence. “We hear only one story. What about the others?”

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. - William Wordsworth

To his surprise, it was from none other than the devil—Calil. “Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here for evermore.”

Eden pov I woke up in the bed alone. As soon as my eyes shot open, I jumped out of the bed and scanned the surroundings. Although I could overlook the fact that I was completely alone, I couldn’t ignore the feeling of the imposing dread in the pit of my stomach. Something was terribly wrong, the house was too quiet. While anyone could claim everything was alright, I knew it wasn’t. The usual chatter, that I could hear even in the bedroom at nights, was gone. Goosebumps covered my skin and all of a sudden, my heart started hammering in my chest.