Author’s Note: This poem is based on a light that, oh, for so, so long kept me awake at night. I wrote a poem about it a while ago, and curious as to your thoughts. The word poe was created for this—meaning a ghost. However, it can also be considered an allusion to the great poet Edgar Allen Poe. I feed off reviews; don’t starve the poet.

In the depths of night,
When time stands still with fright,
Comes that bluish glow,
Like that, of some spectral poe,
Intent of insanity to sew.

How I loathe that little thing,
Gnawing, like wasp’s sting,
Through blinded window,
And reflecting on darkened snow,
To death, I would like it to go.

But I know now, a rock I should take,
And with it, this light quake,
To seal myself in darkened room,
Untouchable; a blinded tomb,
This is how my sleep, I will groom.

You may call me mad,
Though until this experience you’ve had,
You know not how bad it feels,
When darkness, light steals,
The stinging of a thousand eels.

However tonight there was no light,

Something that filled me with fright,

‘Could the man be dead?’ I ponder aloud,

And to the windows I crowd,

Darkness having already cast it’s shroud.

I gazed across white-tipped fence,

Awed by uncommon silence,

‘For where is that bluish glow?

That glow, I do so intimately know!

That irritating burning beam!’ I crow.

There is no sound, save trembling breath,

As I pray there has been no death.

Gazing across the simple yard’s back,

Hoping for footsteps that crinkle and crack,

Something this night has come to lack.

Where is that spectral poe?
My unseen enemy of brightened glow,

I know, in darkness does it wait,

For the flipping hand of fate,

Something that is, tonight, late.

Where are you little friend?

Waiting to dispel my dreams and darkness end?

‘Not tonight—of this I’m sure,’

I mumble aloud, before a silent burr,

Though I hope soon he will stir.

He is waiting for me, I know,

Out there amidst the freshly fallen snow,

Waiting, for my head to lay down in sleep,

So he may turn me into a tossing heap,

A joy, he must surely reap!

‘All right—enough!’

I screech, prepared to run out in the buff,

Although, I stay at the window,

Looking out across deep, shadowed snow,

Waiting, for it—for the spectral poe.

It is my pacifier,

And to say otherwise, would make me a liar.

Although, I do hate it so,

I have come to need that much-despised glow,

Lest insanity, in my mind, would sew.