“He's radioactive, that's all that he'll be in the style of Poe”

In chambers dim and shadow-choked,  
Where candle’s glow and memory spoke,  
He paces, pallid as the ghost  
Of sorrowed dreams he’s loved the most—  
A hapless relic, doomed to see  
He’s radioactive—such is he.

No bells resound in midnight gloom,  
No friendly footfalls cross his room.  
A flicker, green and ghastly-bright,  
Confides his curse into the night.  
Around him whispers ceaselessly—  
He’s radioactive, that’s all he’ll be.

Once flesh and hope, with laughter warm,  
Now light denies his spectral form.  
His touch, a sigh, a silent blight,  
His steps dissolve in spectral light.  
The living shrink unconsciously  
From what he is. That’s all he’ll be.

The clocks mark time that will not heal,  
His veins alight with soulless steel.  
He gazes out with haunted eyes  
And counts the cost, and wonders, “Why?”  
A faded heart beats uselessly—  
He’s radioactive, and will always be.

So mark his shadow as it falls  
Across cold floors of leaden halls;  
Within, without, a muted cry:  
A curse he can’t abandon, try—  
A fate, a fire, an endless plea:  
He’s radioactive—that’s all he’ll be.

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