Jorge Luis Borges
He stumbled through a labyrinth without walls,
blind, as we all are, as he walked those twisting halls.
She rode her stream of consciousness wherever it went
until she sank in the waves, pockets full of rocks and sediment.
His expectations were not great at the start of his life,
but they grew more expansive, as did, too, his wife.
He did not throw in the towel—rather it unfurled
as he hitchhiked elsewhere, to another world.
He sang a song to the gloomy morning hues
when all he wanted was to listen to Jazz and the Blues.
As a lexicographer he sought to define many a word
from the perspective of the Devil, so as to not be absurd.
It was not a fairytale life for someone of her kind,
so she hopped in the car to leave it all behind.
She had Nazi boots always pressing down on her chest
and marched herself into an oven, wanting to rest.
Though a jester, he disliked drama, as does Death,
and so he merely nodded upon taking his final breath.
Diana Wynne Jones
Not always living a charmed life, she still wove magic
to transmogrify resplendent joy from what was tragic.
Robert E Howard
He imagined himself better, a throneless barbarian king,
and crowned himself with a pistol when he tired of living.
He dreamt of horrors lurking in every sphere
and died, eventually, of a lurking fear.
Edgar Allan Poe
His career was buried prematurely before he hit his stride,
fame meeting him on the Plutonian shore like a deathbed bride.
Like an academic scrapbook, his life seemed a bit dull
so he inserted into it mezzotints most diabolical.
Sheridan Le Fanu
How dark with murk was his drinking glass,
through which his green Irish tea came to pass.
Flannery O’ Connor
Lupus reminded her that faith was not a friendly dog,
but a wolf that hunted you through the dismal fog.