For I am death, the personification of pure evil,
The grand godfather, of legions of unnumbered generations.
Behold thy disciples, baptized beneath my crimson waters,
Then reanimated as the living undead, in mine own image,
These are my forsaken children of the Night.
Kissed by the angel of death, I'm resurrections insurrection,
Spawned in hell a creature devoid of heart or soul, yet do I
Exist, biting at the exposed throat of humanity, leaving it
Drained completely dry.
Does not the white lily turn ember red, within this the
Valley of damnation.
My throne is a black coffin gilded in golden refinement,
Residing beneath the wooden lid, the beast sleeps,
Waiting to be embraced by the darkness of night.
Slowly, emerging from mine cryptic mausoleum,
I'm famished for the taste of the living essence
A gentlemen reaper of the fallen, deeply do these
Fangs penetrate into the soft flesh of humanity,
Tis a dark blessing's supernatural gift, have I been
So given, to take life then to restore it.
Raw beasts of instinct, clinging to the ethereal
Moon, that hangs above illuminating this,
Our unholy abyss.
Welcome to a shadow nation of the unseen,
Whose roots extend backwards, to an older country’s
Unconsecrated soil, called Transylvania.
On mine legacies crest, a red dragon with talons
Extended reaches out, grappling for powers control.
For I am Dracula, born of royal blood in life,
But in death I am a king, let these castle walls
Bleed on forever, and the hounds of hell,
Sing outside my rod iron gates.
But beware mortal flesh if you so enter,
For I will enjoy every trespasser,
Whom dares to venture within my
Sacred territory, with a fiendish smile
Upon my hungering face.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Dead men tell no tails, or so the winds of
On judgment hill from on high,
Voices do echo downwards, as the
Noose does sway, back and forth, on the
These gallows, of oaken branches, act as tethers,
Shackles, holding the forsaken, souls prisoner.
Ghost phantoms cling, to it's rotten limbs,
That break beneath times endless rampage.
Regrets fallen horsemen, of the old west,
Stand guard, sentinels on horse back,
Wearing a tarnished tin star.
God's law keepers, are branded, sworn,
By their honor, to protect even after death,
The gates of heaven, from this spawn of hell.
Beware evil desperadoes, no mercy will
This the lord's posses show unto you,
For these riders bare a different mark.
A silver cross of justice, given by
The Almighty’s hand himself.
Say thy prayers, all lawless men,
For on this day, does the rope tighten,
Around your neck, there is no reprieve,
No salvation for evils deceit.
Hell bound are thou, the devils breed.
But beware, there is no escape,
From this grave site.
At dawns first light, as it spreads
Across the western horizon.
Know that yee, are one of many spirits
Doomed, to be weaved within the
Tangled limbs, called the hang
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
There are times we are left to cope
With situations that drain our hope
Leaving us full of despair
At how some people just don't care
About the evil that they do
To good people like all of you
We are left to somehow face
That in mankind there is disgrace
And those of us left alive
Must find away to survive
As you pick up the pieces of your life
Without your mother, father, husband or wife
And some of you God forbid
Without the love of your kids
We must band together with a brotherhood
Show that in this world there is some good
Because we are together in this deal
We try to help each other heal
We seek in each other good advice
And offer each other sacrifice
We hold each other in prayer and song
As we continue to re-build the wrong
Because what else in the world can we do
Except let the light of good shine through
The evil darkness and despair
Of a catastrophic lack of care
We want you to know you are not alone
Think of America as a giant cone
And all of us are funneling through
Our prayers and hopes to all of you
Posted for Nathan's 9-11 contest
Beware, out-Lander for thy tread on the sacred ground,
Of Louisiana, guarded by the ghosts of the Mississippi,
And here the dead tell know tails, of the living's returning,
After adventuring into the darkness of the night.
Rattle them bones, sister voodoo woman,
Black magic's high priestess, cast asunder the
Ivory teeth of the white devils, across the streets
Of old New Orleans, behold the ancient city of lost souls.
Hidden beneath the glittering mask, of La Carnival,
It is the celebration of the dead, my friend, and faceless
Figures, do toss the beads of evil, to the lustful
Crowds gathering, for Mardi-Grad's extravaganza.
Phantom walkers, without names or emotions, spirit stalkers,
Roaming the old French quarter, seeking to catch the
Innocent traveler unaware and unprotected.
A wall of realism and illusion, thin is the veils that divide
Light and darkness, sheer vaporous mist of transparency,
Existing in this the forgotten realm, where southern
Comfort invites the living to visit, but never allows them
To leave alive.
As the flickering rays of twilight fades, swallowed whole
By the spectral invaders, the creatures of light seek refuges,
Holy places, as the church bells ring, calling unto the innocent
Make heist to salvation's shelters of grace.
In he city's center, lays a dry leathery organ, sunken
And misshapen, feel the rising, the awakening of the
Heart of evil emerging, its veins arteries made of
Cobble stones brick, thus are the webbing's of streets leading,
Unto the deadened heart, metamorphosing it alive once more.
Slowly bloods spiritual essence rushes through
These ethereal veins, reaching this source most
Evil, it owns this city of lost souls, unto the tolling
Hour of dawns first rays of light, crossing the horizon.
Red bricked buildings lay side by side one
Another, in a design of Gothic manipulation, feeding
Stations made cozy for the living and dead to reside
Within, as the crimson curtains blow freely from the
Inside out, welcome my friends to the French quarters,
The threshold's crossing, between life and death.
Hear the low thumping of the Jamaican drum,
Mixed with African tongue, chanting in rhythm's
Echoing breeze, softly spoken in whispers are the spells
Of misfortune, a vow's crimson promise, written in blood
Long ago, a demonic pack made between the spiritual native
Inhabitance and the dark heart of the Cajun Bayou.
On bloods throne the Grim Reaper does so sit, next
To his bride, the Queen known as Mrs. New Orleans,
Both laughing in tandem, with the musical chorus
In this requiem of the dammed.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Deep beneath the busy streets of France,
Lies a hidden realm of the undead, cryptic tombs,
Of the ancient.
Dusty corridors, lined with skulls and cross bones,
An eerie tributes monument, for the once living,
Sacred hallows of the darkness left behind,
Those not forgotten, but not remembered by
In these mazes called the catacombs, beware
The screams echoing, for within spirits seek out
The living, whispering enchantments of bewitchment.
Ever so lightly do finger tips touch, at thy naps of the
Back of ones neck, giving visitors an icy chill.
Gleaming eyes of crimson, seem to pierce through
The veils of night, seemingly to watch thee, the
Daring explorer, whom has traveled without
Roaming at freedoms will do these creatures of
The supernatural, hunt in this arena of the undead
Lingering and feasting on souls whom do not
Realize there is no except from this ethereal
There is no prayer or talisman charm for
Protection here, in this realm of the unknown,
Blessings virtue is lost amongst the tormented.
Stacked carcasses of human kind, decorate these
Chambers far below, beneath the city of romance
Yet in heaven angel's so do weep, for the lost
Souls never receiving salvation redemption,
Forever caught in limbo's dimension, do the
Unfortunate wander without mercy's hope.
For here God's everlasting light shall not penetrate,
Through the shrouded mists of darkness,
It thickness is to great, this vaporous mist of
Corporeal essence lingers in every shadows corner.
But I'll cry for them, a tear's grace, that maybe
One day they'll know the lord's final grace,
In these the forgotten catacombs.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
In the garden of forbidden mysticism, grows thus sorrows
Black rose bush, deeply rooted are the vines of incantations
Dark spells of discontent, drawing it's evil powers of the
Supernatural from the crimson soil.
Plucked are these ebony blossoms, by the hand of death
Himself, the Grim Reaper, and tenderly he places them upon the
Unmarked graves of the living, but only a single bloom.
Nay in Salem's orchard, did these darkened petals fall,
Blowing in the breeze of misfortune,
Castings’ leaving’s of the innocent a shunned, so unjustly
Accused and misjudged.
But strung on the blood lines of truth, do so ring
The bells of vengeance rage, echoing in the far distance,
Hear their ethereal voices of the forsaken, crying out why?
For every evergreen leaf, is the representation of inheritances
Legacy to those of the forgotten and betrayed.
Dipped in red ink is the mighty quilt pen, of the dark
Hooded Inquisitor, behold a dead man's list of names,
Burnt offerings sacrificed on the alter of a corrupt pulpit.
Written on fleshes supple parchment scroll, and sanctified by
The greed of deceit.
Oh woe to thee whom bares the witches mark, for in Salem
Thou’ art doomed, by the serpent's fork tongue of innocence,
Nay suffer the little children, but here they are the wolves set
Amongst the lambs of the innocent.
Beware their howl by day or night, for in fierceness's bite
It has no equal, and if thy name they call, your life has
Been forsaken one in all, but the lord hears you the voices of
Salem, and thus sends his servant unto thee.
Guilt's judgment is superficial, the verdict has already been so written,
Before the jury even comes within the court room, and the gavels
Heavily leaden hammer is struck.
Blown wide open are these church doors, and a hooded man
Thus so enters, cursing those within, and giving each one a single
Ebony rose, the Grim Reaper so speaks, I'll see you soon, in my kingdom
Of damnation's sorrow.
Turning from when'st he came, to the victim residing upon the stand,
Towards the heavens look child of light for thee I have no black ebony
But instead a white rose shall the angels on high, will give unto
Thee, and will you then know God's everlasting peace
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
This evening I listen to a Rock 'n' Roll band
Their track is Civil War, as our world now expands
To us it's the same size but to others they despise
For the want of greed exists in their killer hungry eyes
Where do I start, to say of their evil spread
A different starvation leaving the world in evil dread
It's not our today's but our yesterdays years
That our history tells us, of our everlasting torn tears
Cambodia, the Lebannon, and Sri Lanka's Indian sun
Rebels who demand better at the end of a gun
Guaetamala and Peru with their Shining Path
Villagers in terror decrying it's ever last
Democracy is our power in it's controllable exist
Like the Shining above, how long will our future paths persist
Recent news in the Arabic World, has taken tyrants by surprise
For decades they have stolen with their torturing infidel lies
I could go deeper and deeper to describe these evils acts
In wanton blood spillage, to increase civil war torn facts
For this is the world we live in, it appears we determine to live
Maybe in our lifetime it will be on our doorstep, we open, our lives will sieve
They come from a different era
where patriotism is a just cause
they would fight for the true blue
never mind who was right or wrong
they stood staunch and egos proud
their chest out, backs straight and chins up
they come from an old style of thinking
I fight today as my father and grandfather did too.
fighting for an eye for an eye tooth for a tooth
I will die to serve my country even if its a lie
if you try to invade our land
we will come and conquer you
we are defenders of the truth
but the old timers forget
and the young ones have a narrow point of view
there was a time when the immigrants were Irish, Italians and jews
racism was rampant and that hasn't changed
Christians today still preach
'Jesus is savior they say repent your evil ways
pushing their rhetoric just like the roman empire did
amazingly America seems to be doing the same
history seems to repeat itself time and time again
war, religion, oil and what we perceive as freedom
we invade again and again and call it defending democracy
yet the intelligence comes from spies and other governments
because they have shared interests in different types of policy
they all carefully choose their words
because one slip of the lip could trigger war as it has happened before
todays war on terrorism is a campaign designed to instill pain
and un-trust to drain our resources from us
And our leader claimed up front this is not a religious war
yet he paraphrases from the bible we'll get those evil doers
you see bush fooled our religious leaders too.
he used their belief in Jesus he tricked 'em all just to get their vote
he claims he's a born again Christian and this Christians embraced him holly
but then one day bush spoke to Jesus and asked what to do with Iraq
Jesus responded Invade that country
Now dont get me wrong Jesus was not about war
he taught of peace, love and compassion
however his message has been twisted and turned over time
and history shows the hands of Christian religious leaders are always bloody
because they twist the truth to control dictatorship is always the goal
Bush had been plaining war before a judge handed him the seat
on his first day he signed a bill into law prevent any criminal charges against him
Analysis read—and wronged—and pulled
Lulled into our idealistic mess
Words no longer ours but hung distress
Farced in carnality—they are ruled
Soundness remains what we will believe
And all else is but tethered nonsense
Clinched tightly in unfriendly absence
Overcome in overwrought relief
The judges judge on behalf of tongue
When ears and eyes close achingly tight
And perhaps in woe we find them right
For witches sought and bound must be hung!
Lower than the softened dirt that cures
Where worms in halves blindly come to eat
The higher crush with tormented feat
And the suns scorch what is left of hers
Answers never tried—and cured to hide
They look to superior sources
The rotten are the strongest forces
Ripened and toughened with bequeathed pride
Contest: Metrical verse
Sponsor: Giorgio Veneto
In summertime, the ivy climbs,
and hides the castle wall.
The king dreams of late,
that the sea is so great,
and yet - his boat is so small.
As swift as a fox and
dark as a raven on wing,
seven hundred soldiers march
into the valley of the king.
Long overdue, a battle ensues
flanking the powers that be.
Children cry, and good men die,
the monarch is now on his knee…
Soon the horsemen alone
try to maintain the throne.
But the long way around
is the shortest way home.
The evening is filled
with chaos and smoke,
and the kingdom is
stunned by it all…
Soon the sun will go down,
and in spite of his crown,
the king will undoubtedly fall…
His rival’s strength
by a king overtaken,
his life is now but a pawn.
His authority lifted,
the power has shifted –
an era of glory is gone…
Copyright © 2013