The storm outside rages and churns.

The fire within crackles and burns.

Still with each snap and crash,

The answer eludes like the spreading rash.

My anger grows and writhes,

Each test taken by the Reaper's scythe.

This latest failure the greatest of blunders,

My mind crushed by the doubt it's under.

Soon I will find the answer to this riddle,

Then my doubts will seem such a trivel.

Tomorrow my newest subject arrives,

His screams assuring that still he's alive.

Within the week I hope to be done,

I pray this man is truly the one.

If he survives and the experiment a success,

My place in history, and wealth, will be no guess.

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Comment by Roth Wyldmann on June 23, 2014 at 9:35am

Well, scientific progress must be made, yes? It is quite a foreboding and ominous poem.

Comment by Sgt. Ian MacBrooke on June 22, 2014 at 11:50pm
Ok Mr. Poe...just a little creepy there.

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