[UnbornBuddha]

Poe was pressed for time to meet his book’s deadline.
A poor struggling novelist with barely enough food to get by
Deprived of survival’s comfort he consistently forsook bed time
Starved for sleep he’ll then see things through his inflamed red eyes
Visions of ghouls and flies oozing out his cranium, mind and brain stem as slime.
Delusional he’ll write beautiful luminous notes that in the daytime will make insane headlines in the infirmary.
But in these moon stretched nights he’ll be so moved by the infernal scenes he’ll compose for an eternity
And as the sun arises he’ll awaken from his impermanent dream and come home to his normalcy.

Yet,
Tired of life’s uninspired ordinary scenes Poe desperately desires to return to where his soul has mass deformities.
Craving adversity he inadvertently turns to coke as an emergency tool to convulse into disharmony.
Hearing horrid voices not of this realm has him so elated he comes to know full blown serenity;
Systemic bliss causes his gloomy smile to contort ever so merrily. Forgetting those he once seriously envied.
You see Poe’s real life was apparently a rumored parody, a jester who always felt materially empty.

This other dimension made Poe internally wealthy.
How? By conforming to perishing early on he has become transformed by perversity
A perilously friendly energy which has entered his heart, a piercing which connotes affirmatively a worsening of his lunacy
But instead of worrying him,
He studiously scripts his pain mentally absorbing suffering through his glee relayed through his sensory organs.
What he hears is comparable to a symphony forged in the turbid bowels of hell, stringently morbid
yet eminently gorgeous like a heavenly aura.
Bio-warfare, nuclear turmoil certainly harms you,
but the poison of urchins appears an amicable wonder that plunders your life force despicably from you.
A flood of serotonin is not nirvana, though common a chemical numbing is not identical to angelical calmness.
Knowing this Poe still proceeds to enter the trance where his preached upon by evangelical goblins.


Hordes of crawling insects maul at him and injure his forearm,
devouring one entirely as he uses the other to jot down the essential version
Having done his elemental purpose, akin to a presidential sermon,
he utterly surrenders to being swallowed by an enormity of infectious vermin.
Disappearing from sight was eminently worth it being able to expressively observe a hellish fiends torment,
Hungry wraiths segmentally honoring his body by dissecting and devouring it,
as he conscientiously pondered them.
Poe too, attentively dissected their performance through journaling what he inevitably learned from them
Creating a once in a lifetime novel and effectively wording it
having genetically sorted them in his DNA, a nexus of organelles.
Poe’s creative output was embedded a horror tale
invented from thawing hell’s icy chambers from his own solar plexus, thus parting hell.
It seems the author was destined for his starving cells to ingest what darkness helps to hide,
headless apparitions with no appendages dwelling where an age old relic of karma hexed them.
Resembling Mother Theresa, tenderly hauling on he became a remnant through heartless penance.
For communicating with the beyond,
his now serving the netherworld’s length of a thousand sentence, yet on earth his message is spreading like cancer swellings.

His novel has become a best seller of this century, and his surviving wife Emily vexing heavily distressingly purchases it,
A widow who has now become a celebrity furthering his legacy by carrying the burden of his memory,
Her fame is so, she's even invited to be the person hosting jeopardy!
So what did he write from his sacrifice, jargon and treachery? No, a breakthrough story of legendary proportion.
Its content upholds and proposes Shen, 神, the spirit to have its own vortex into its home's door step.
Exactly where is the sanctum? Well, you’ll have to read Poe's dismal tale of phantoms, if not you’ll abysmally guess at random.