Edgar Allan Poe was an American writer who lived from 1809 to 1849 and was best known for his poem “The Raven“ and tales such as “The Tell-Tale Heart“ and “The Fall of the House of Usher”. Poe had an uncanny sense for evoking the horror of sinister forces living beneath the surface of everyday reality. And, one of his primary metaphors for letting that reality speak was the sound of a heartbeat—its unmistakable rhythmic repetition that could not be seen but could be heard bearing witness to the crimes and guilts of the human heart that would not stop beating despite every effort to erase it. The sound of crimes and horrors just beneath the surface that cannot be silenced seems especially relevant to what is happening in the United States today in such events as the insurrection of January 6, 2020 or the murders by ICE in Minneapolis in 2026. These are the sounds of crimes against our nation’s heart and soul and these are the murmurs of horror that are Edgar Allan Poe’s natural soundscape.
Hear me—
hear me—
for I have listened long enough.
You say there is nothing wrong.
You say it loudly.
You say it often.
You say it again.
Again.
Again.
The halls are bright with banners.
The chandeliers blaze.
The wine spills freely.
Music swells, louder than thought.
Louder than doubt.
Louder than the sound beneath the floor.
What sound? you ask.
What sound?
The sound you do not hear
because you will not listen.
You have sealed the doors—not against death,
but against truth.
You have locked the gates—not to protect the living,
but to preserve the dance.
You wear masks of certainty.
You parade them from room to room.
Red, gold, purple—
each more splendid than the last.
Each insisting:
This is fine.
Each insisting:
This is victory.
Each insisting:
Nothing follows us.
Yet the clock still strikes.
You laugh at the clock.
You shout over the clock.
You call the clock an enemy.
Still—
it strikes.
You say the heart is steady.
You say the heart is strong.
You say it is the greatest heart ever known.
Then why do you listen so closely?
Why do you pause mid-sentence?
Why do you raise your voice—
just then—
just there—
as though sound itself might drown out sound?
It is not madness, you say.
No—
madness does not repeat itself so carefully.
It is not fear, you say.
No—
fear does not dress itself in such extravagance.
It is not guilt, you say.
No—
guilt does not knock so politely.
But listen—
listen—
Beneath the laughter,
beneath the chanting,
beneath the velvet and the gold,
there it is.
A beating.
Measured.
Persistent.
Unimpressed by your certainty.
You may seal every door.
You may silence every witness.
You may declare the night endless.
But the sound does not come from outside the room.
It comes
from beneath your feet.
And it will not stop.