In a genesis of thought becomes what is there from dreams as they were never written. Between a pair eyes looking at a page where the dreams are drawn from a strained memory, that it is there where it shall begin. Where the setting of this begins in the train station where I saw something which resembled a raven staring upon the soul of one’s being; as it would tick from the clock of the lobby of a Victorian type train station — this being Union Station within Chicago’s downtown area. That it is in the mind where I am writing this from, and the memory which sits in the subconscious. As it ticks away in the madness, where it is in the sleep that wanes from the thoughts as the daylight hours burn away into the nightfall. As the dream which one last had was of a journal of a tormented soul — which has left behind a shadow within the traces that are of his essence within Baltimore.
It is in the eyes that I would bare the observation of the thoughts while the bird which has the appearance of a shadow; perched upon the traffic light before the entrance of the train station. Among it would become in the papers of the writer who had been long gone — that one could hear the bird whispering a single word, that word, “nevermore.” I would see the pages of ones journal falling on the floor of the train station. Each page would have a passage which describes the nightmare they had written out from an alcohol-induced sleep and hung over. Where the pages of the journal left a trail from the station lobby to the train that was going to Washington, D.C. From where one would describe themselves as emotionally disturbed or sick, but it is from the nightmares that one begins to relate this narrative.
Stare into the unknown as one would describe or relate — where one cannot tell where it is either of the real or the dream. Where it would read about 3 in the afternoon on the clock within the train station, but it would appear as it would be within the midnight hour or as known to be the witching hour. In a tearing thought, from the winding hours within the dreams as one draws of the shadows of time. Of what I would see as it was written within Edgar Allen Poe’s journal, from the falling deeper in his tormented revelations. As I proceed to gather up the torn pages, one would see the raven looking on — with its black glass-like eyes with its soulless stare.
This mind — where one would stare at the page of what I put into the writing as of the dream of this time, describing the journal of Edgar Allen Poe. From the raped visions which one can only describe as being among the apocalypse. The words as they were there in the pages describe the devil’s narrative, from an infernal torment as one would see within an opium induced nightmares penned on pages as they appear weathered from the ages of time. In what would remain of the thoughts as I pick up the pages of Poe’s journal; from the dream inhabiting the thoughts as one draws from the details — of the sleep impending from them, as one would describe this book known to which being Poe’s journal. Inside the unknown, in the pages as they are scrawled out; as one would see the nervous pen strokes as they walk across the page. Becoming of what would never be in the written, as one bares the witness of the crucified mind. In the eyes within sleep, knowing that it is the sense of being where one had the thoughts as they gone mad.
Which it becomes the question of stability. Among the ornate details that are there in the mind while one drifts from the waking into the sleep; where the dark genesis becomes of what dwells among the shadow out of time. As it would draw from the eulogies of the dead, they were heard while dreaming beneath the ground after their demise. From the thoughts which the draws from the darkness which appears as it was still in the mid afternoon — of the appearance of nightfall in the two o’clock hour. As it gathers from the dream; from this is where I see Poe’s Journal — pages of the journal full of cryptic entries.
In the pages of ones mind that the imagination had captured — in a rapture of the thoughts which are left among the abstract and vaguely distinct. Vast as one would describe — the dream that is there within the mind becomes the genesis of the torments that become of the reoccurring illness. Deeper in the cold as the nightmare dwells alone — with the demons that are waiting from the dreams with all the Shades of Hades; knowing as one would describe the shadow staring back. The shape with the soulless eyes staring back as one gathers each of the weathered pages. In the thoughts becoming — where I would describe of the darkness blanketed by one’s own madness and illness drawn inside the patterns of the nightmares that roam. Between the thoughts within the unstable soul, and the one staring from a pair of black, soulless eyes — one would still hear the single word whispered from the silence, “nevermore.”
Unknown. One would describe a dream as this would reflect the shadows of the unknown, and the fear that draws from it. Even in death that becomes of the nightmares written from them, from knowing as they were in the sleep between the waking hours — as one described in the time from the stay in the asylum. In the dreams that assure me that I had gone insane — or relate of the thoughts of the unsound mind. Between the writings between the lines of Poe’s journal — as one would draw from the nightmares reflecting the opium eater. As one would describe this — if a psychologist read the writings from this, they would surely of locked him in a sanitarium. That they would not see the glassy-eyed raven staring at them with its soulless eyes, but they could not hear it repeating its words, that it would be cawing — “nevermore.” From them the narratives become from the vast among torments, beneath the eyes and the sleep draw from the darker — from a mirror that tells as one sees the observations of the unsound.
I found myself gathering each page together, while picking each page and putting them together as pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. As one piece falls together — it is in the darkness that comes within the terror of the soul. From where it is related from the dream as it is written, describing the pages within Edgar Allen Poe’s journal. Gathering among what would appear as at first so pure, then it turns into a shadow of the perverse. Questions among the dreams become the blessed of the sick, among the blessed are the diseased. Opium laced thoughts as one would describe it as — or find the better term for it. Nonetheless which could describe inside the dream, and the chasm of the gathering darkness. Gathering together the pages while the shape of the raven with the soulless eyes continue to look on; a cold sense of the words describing that would become of them. As one would see the raven perched from the clock in middle of the train station — with its soulless stare and lifeless appearance, as it was a stuffed trophy. Of the silence grown deafening in the mind as the nightmares from the shadow of reality become of them -- from the pages of a journal of opium-induced thoughts.
In pages that are looming around in a shadow where they reflect the Shades of Hades looking on; from the sense of the being drifting from the hours of the wake and the sleeping. In the thoughts that become from the shadowing genesis, among the reflections of what are written of a war torn land — an Elysian fields. In pages from his journal written inside the chasms of his demons — the whispers in the silence leaving the echoes in the dark. Where it would be written from a dream in a journal of an opium eater. Left behind among the thoughts gathering in the ashes between the remains as one watches the raven looking back with a pair of black, soulless eyes. Presence of the entity as watches without life — as it would be a gargoyle staring into the voidless genesis. Among the blank pages of a genesis described of what becomes — the beginning, as the beginning becomes the horror in itself.
Nor it would be in the eyes and observations of a psychologist staring at the journals of a deceased but it was from the dreams drawn from them. The nightmares dwelling in the sense of the being, in the sense of the horror which draws from depths of the tormented soul. In the sense of when the sleep transcribes from the dreams seeming as one drifts deeper into the darkness that dwindles among the Shades of Hades walking within the Elysian Fields. The nightmares which follow from the subsiding sleep, one would only describe of them being as this knowing — of the unknown as one stands inside their tormented dreams. Among the places where one can see the bird looking on — with the soulless stare cawing, “nevermore.”
Silence draws around the shadow of whispers echoing around the terminal hallways, and the lobby within the Victorian design work and Gregorian ceilings. One could hear the voices in the silence — no one else were around but one could hear the voices saying, “nevermore.” The stone statue-like presence of the bird as it stares down at everyone walking around, no one but me was able to see the shadow. It was the presence resembling the Shades of Hades. That I’ve describe this, looking through the journal of Edgar Allen Poe. Looking through the eyes of the opium eater, reading the pages of his drug and alcohol induced nightmares. Slipping into the dreams from the chasms of sleep, from thoughts as they dwell in a tormenting mind — in the whispers that come from the silence as one hears the single word. That word hiding in the maddening mind, “nevermore.”
From a pair of eyes looking on, weak and weary, as the tiredness becomes even more evident. The dreams as they were inked within the manuscript, descending from the tiredness that leads into the descending from sleep waiting as darkness wanes from the daylight hours. Among the pages gathering in the nightmares within the shapeless darkness that shrouds inside the train station. In pages written from a nervous hand, and the nightmares inside the horror gathering — ticking with the clock that the soulless-eyed raven looks and staring as one walks around. Sinking further into the maelstrom as one continues to read the pages of the opium eater. In the chasms that draw from the nightmares and the maelstrom as one sees themselves descending into.
