THE POE-TIC SCHOLAR

Sitting at the table,burning the midnight oil,
 The scholar dipped his quill .
 Rewriting history,from present to past; his writing gave him thrills.

 Gazing behind his back,a sound;he turned around. But nothing seemed to be there,as he kept looking in fear....

 Then the sound slithered nearer,louder he could hear,a whisper,
 That's something he couldn't bear;his canvas of reasoning in tatters,
 He picked up his walking stick and waved it around... Still looking for the sound,thoughts abound,he shivered. 

The whisper came back,now more like a hiss but still not to be found.

Round and round went the writer,now a desperate fighter,out of guesses and looking for more...
Maybe,he thought the sound is from the shore,sounding louder than before.

Must be the stillness of night that gave him the fright..
And then the sound came back but now he had found the source. 
Up on the shelf was sitting a raven that whispered,now louder, “Do not be afraid;I am no foe,just a bird from the dead that has brought you a message.

 The writer read the message:

”Fear not,my friend,I ran out of ink,so I sent my bird while I grabbed a drink,It's not what you think;I frequently run short so have a heart and oblige so our friendship can start.I promise you ,though,your fear won't repeat so sit down on your seat and write some more. 

Your friend;not foe, 

Edgar Allan Poe."