Lord, help me soul

 They found me wandering in the street
in clothes that didn't fit me.
My end could have been written by myself,
dark and uncertain.
As I lay in the dim light of the hospital,
dripping with feverish sweat,
I had repeated: Reynolds, Reynolds!
Then I went to that land,
which had always been true to me.
Lord, help my soul,
if you help the wicked,
and you will.

Poet´s note. Edgar Allan Poe was a brillian novelist. 

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