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Best Gothic Poems

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Details | Gothic Poem | |

THE HOUSE OF SPIRITS

It looks like a simple brownstone building,
Not much different then any other but it’s residents,
Are of the haunted kind, not made of flesh and bone.
In every window a wind chime stirs, gently caressed by
A chilling winds icy finger tips, after all this is known as
The house of spirits.
Witchery or voodoo’s domain, it is a place of salvation for
Spiritual challenged, listen to the beautiful music they make,
Singing within this their walled cage of brick and mortar, these
Ethereal victims lost.
Here in peace they wait for the light to find them, a waiting chamber,
Of the lords misstep souls, those whom walked off the righteous path,
Yet are not without redemptions wanton of need.
Wanders of limbo’s astral plain, seekers whom roam blindly until 
Finding a doorway threshold, then crossing over, into this the house
Of spirits.
A corridors slender passageway, a way stations layover for those tired
And weary travelers to rest until their final journey’s end comes for them,
Sanctuaries power house of the supernatural.
Behind these red doors dare not the mortal flesh clasp the gilded knockers,
For within are things of the unspoken variety, creature protectors waiting at
Bay for the stray intruder to wander forth upon this sacred ground.
Angels kindred brethren whom seek out evil, destroyers patrolling the
Darker shadows for night stalkers whom wish to feast upon the forsaken.
But light’s white power is a mightier force to be reckoned with, and vanquished
Will the devils spawn into the depths from which they came, into the bowels
Of hell shall these demons be thrown into the blackened pit from which they came?
In the twilight’s ethereal hour, a mid-ways breaking point between light and dark,
A shimmering glow strikes this standing watch tower of abandonment’s forgotten,
And heaven’s flood gates are opened unto them, calling these the lost upwards
Towards nirvana and at last know true peace.
It looks like a simple brownstone building,
Not much different then any other but it’s residents.
Are of the haunted kind, not made of flesh and bone.
In every window a wind chime stirs, gently caressed by
A chilling winds icy finger tips, after all this is known as
The house of spirits.

BY; CHERYL ANNA DUNN

 

Details | Gothic Poem | |

THE VAMPIRE

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,
Of blood.
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
Of mankind.
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

Details | Gothic Poem | |

TOMBSTONE

Whistle does the lone desert winds, flowing downwards from
Boot hill cemetery, in icy chilling breeze full of echoing voices,
From the past, begging for redemptions last chance of salvation.
Roll does the crimson tumbleweed, towards the ghost town known as
Tombstone, a monuments graveyard to the old west.
In this rock cactus garden of venomous vipers, did the righteous
Live, amongst the uncivilized lawless, in this wildness country,
Of the unbridled frontier.
Blinded by greed's lightning flash, for quick money and easy cash,
Did the earth expose evil's shining metal, silver, from deep within,
Accursed is this place, purgatory's hell on earth, its deadly soil marred
And sanctified in blood sacrifice.
Left to the scorpions and rattlesnakes, as the only living inhabitants,
Ramshackle buildings remain, abandonment’s delinquent tribute
To a once thriving community.
But after night fall, others come forth, crossing the threshold of the
Nether underworld, the gun slinger, the gambler, and ladies of
Reputation's ill repute, claim this desert real estate for their own
Dark amusement park, still whooping it up at the bird cage theatre,
Indulging themselves. In all manor of seductions insidious erotic acts
Of depravity.
The condemned soulless walk these dusty sandy streets of limbo,
Forever banished are these bastered son's of the gun. Or until the last
Shot is fired at the O.K. Corral, on high noon's final sunrise.
Satan is the lawful sheriff here, in this the territory of the forsaken,
And his loyal deputy the Grim Reaper controls the posses of the undead.
Riding against the redden moon, seeking any innocent soul trying
To escape from this desert prison.
You've drawn the dead man's hand my friend, if you find yourself lost here,
For the condemned show no mercy's reprieve to outsiders, the screaming
Souls shout from above, run lone cowboy run, and don't look back,
For the devils possess rides behind thee, and the dark lord,
Takes no prisoner's alive.
Whistle do the lone desert winds, flowing downwards from
Boot hill cemetery, in icy chilling breeze full of echoing voices,
From the past, begging for redemptions last chance of salvation.
But light concurs darkness, and death's icy grip fades at the 
First rays of sunrise, and all evil must return to their crypts
Beneath the earth, from the dust from when'est they came, 
Until the next moon's rising, then wide will the gates of hell,
Swing again, releasing the germinate residences of a city,
Named Tomb Stone.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Details | Gothic Poem | |

FRANIKENSTEIN

What am I, a product of a mad man's obsession to play God?
A cross breed’s creature between medicine and science?
For the whole of my parts taken from convicts, and social rejects,
Sown together by skillful hands of a surgeon, with no feeling heart
For this his ultimate creation.
Life infused by heaven's fire storm from on high, did the lord God's
Finger tip's caress against the rocky castle side, electrifying the night
With the Almighty’s spark of existence, and so my mortal father
Screamed with passions conceit, and this was the very first words, I
The beast heard, from my creator's lips, it's a live, it's alive!!
What am I, not human nor monster, do I not possess a soul or spirit,
Do I not deserve the same rights, as those of humanity, but nay I
Am the mocked, and the shunned.
Locked behind an iron barred cage, in a cold dungeon’s bricked
Lined cradle, I'm left in isolation's holding cell, without
Human compassion's physical touch or empathy's mercy.
Yelling up ward’s towards a higher power's glory, I beg of him,
Pleading for redemption's reclamation, to free me from this
Torturous life I've been given,
Free me, heavenly father!!
But I am more than these lumped together human parts of
Refuges misbegotten, for I live, therefore I am, I am man
Not the beast.
This I discovered in my silences solitude, when my jailer
Gave me a special gift, a book such a simple object, yet
It so saved me from madness’ spell, in bold prints
Golden lettering I read the title, The Holy Bible.
In clarities flickering candle light by night did I so
Read, about how a spirit could lift above his mortal
Imprisonment, and soar amongst the angels.
Once I cursed the day of my own birth, but now
I realize to be alive is a great endowment, to be blessed
And rejoiced upon.
As I reach outwardly through these iron bars anew,
I feel the sun's rays for the first time, and know how
Precious a thing this really is, to experience its warmth
And light.
My father, never gave me a name other then it or the beast,
So I will take his, as mine own, behold so shall I be called
FRANIKENSTEIN!!
Made by the firey finger tip's of the lord God himself,
Shall ignorance flame by human kind destroy me?
But heaven's grace in the written word shall save
My immortal essence, and thus I will be restored
On a higher plane's existence, on a farther distant shore,
Considered a monster no more.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Details | Gothic Poem | |

SLENDER MAN

In the thickets wild a shadow figure moves amongst the
Hollows, a deadly presence of evil penetrates through
The forest, it waits as a predator seeking its prey.
On a woodlands path where children do linger, a ghostly
Presences is drawn by innocence, eerily it moves undetected,
From shade to shadows it chokes the chilly autumn air, with
Malice intentions.
It is a beastly creation, thirsting for the youthful souls of the
Young, an abomination worthy of mankind's disdain, appearing
At its own freakish whim, to snatch the unattended children of
Man, then vanishing without a trace.
In a black suit of death he is so dressed, this urban legend,
Called the slender man, with hypnotic eyes of crimson red,
Yet this devil's kindred is sad to have no face.
Hell's spawned demon, with tentacles for arms, reaches out
Out wardly beyond from darkness keep, dragging limp, lifeless
Small shapes of our off spring unto his dark domain's abyss.
This heckling jackal, laughs at our rage, mocking the weeping
Mother who has heard her child screams, in the approaching dusk's
Falling, but it is too late.
Cry for the little children whom are lost unto him, for salvations
Angels of mercy, dare not even challenge him, for he is evil incarnate,
Pure crimson running into the blackness of death itself.
Oh Rock that cradle dear mother, and let the gentle breeze
Brush across the beloved bundle resting within the cradle of humanity,
Sing your sweet
Songs lullaby, but never shall thee leave it, even for a moment,
Beware thy never know whom may be lingering near by.
Proud father, hold tightly to little Johnny hand, feel his tiny trusting
Eyes as you walk along side that well known path, don't stop to speak
To that stranger behind you, for remember to practice what thy preach,
Stranger Danger.
Where does this slender man come from, and why does he thirst for our
Youthful young, no one knows the answer to these questions, but beware
For he strikes with lightening speed, taking that which is most dear to
Humanity.
Let not that small hand slide away from you, no other warmth can feel
As sweet as that of your children's trusting faith, be ever wary, and hold
Your child close, for in the woodlands an evil awaits and they call him,
The slender man.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Details | Gothic Poem | |

THE MOON AND THE GYPSY

A frozen crystal is the heart of the moon,
An ice giant gem, sparkling in the night’s sky,
Isolation’s lone prisoner of reflective chamber light,
A prism of colors, rainbows of the universe beaming
Outwardly from within.
Cold is stone, this icy rock amongst space dust, a lunar light
Left on by a divine powers spiritual right of might, to illuminate
His grand creation, a blue planet full of life, called earth.
Yet all life created has a spirit, even this chilling glow hanging
In the solos sphere, it is lonely, and thus it prayers for championship.
The lord feels its singularity, sending it a miracle of beauty.
A gray cloaked hooded figure approaches, stepping within a monumental 
Memorial of ancient ruins, forgotten by mankind kindred for millenniums,
Long ages past.
The stones begin to hum in rhythms mystic tongue, the air thickens with
Spells of wicken mysticism, feel the winds currents bend yielding unto the
Five elements raw force of power.
Above the moon beams dance surrounding this creature hidden beneath
The blanket of darkness, as if trying to coax it to reveal itself unto the light.
In rhyme’s pitches heightened moment, the ground vibrates, with excitement,
Then the veils of illusions are dropped, texture by texture, she thus stands
Shivering in the moonlight, black flexion hair blowing in the breeze of destiny,
With bare copper brown skin exposed to the open elements.
A gift of nobility, she shall dance for the divine, with the wild heart of the 
Spiritual gypsy beating within her.
Slowly she raises her delicate hands ever so gracefully, then looking upwards
She smiles at him, the moon, I am sent for thee, she so speaks ever slowly,
I am the maiden known as Bindu, enlightenments angel of enchantment, shall I dance
For thee.
Swaying in motions elegance, her bangles cling and clang together, memorizes,
Hypnotizing the orbiting giant hanging within the night’s starry sky above.
A glittering shower of praise thus descends unto her, melting heart shaped diamonds,
Jewels of the heavens, precious tokens of appreciation, a treasures ransom of blessings
Tribute, given from the moon to the gypsy child of earth, known as Bindu...
In flashes lightening she so joins him, in the heavens vastness of the night,
Joined within these dancing rainbows of everlasting light, two lunar beings,
Embraced within the arms of each other for all eternity.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN





‘

Details | Gothic Poem | |

AMONGST THE TREES

In the trees the voices whisper, the orbs dance in the swirling mists,
The ethereal winds brush against the living and the undead here cry in 
Valley of discontent.
Twisted are the branches, banging, slamming at the brickened walls,
As many hands smack at the glass within, a prison of spiritual essence,
Death is just another level of existence.
Within the Winchester house, many souls scream in the darkness,
Corporeal beings shift from light to dark, phantoms walk in these haunted
Halls, lightly stepping from earth to air.
From the blood of the fallen innocent do these bricks bleed, build from
Mankind’s greed has this foundation been so built, a cursed vision of 
A tortured old woman, seeking redemptions release from the invention
Of the powder and the gun.
In labyrinth’s maze shadows fade, as if melting ice though hard wooden
Floors and evaporating between solid beams, these victims of life shades,
Have come here to find a solitudes refuge.
At the stroking of mid-nights tolling hour, hear the ancient organ play,
As invisible finger tips strike at the ivory keys, doesn’t the candle stick light
Without combustions fuel, igniting the blue-green flame it flickers without the
Winds breathe.
Softly skeletal remains play, calling the forsaken unto this entrapment of hells
Divine cell of impurities unkempt, its stench lingering in the breeze oozing
Downwards through hallways, and corridors leading unto know where.
The grandfather clock chimes it’s twelfth’s bong, she so comes forward 
Dressed in blackened lace, a white faced vision of opulence elegance, the lady
Of this residence, trying to give thee a personal invite, turn away mortal flesh
If you believe that she is not real, keep strongly woven within thy faiths cocoon.
But on the back bone of reality, a disembodied hand touches your shoulder,
As a chilly rush accelerates your inner ward heart beat, shall you then be brave
Enough to turn around, or has your courage left you alone to face such evil.
But all here belong, and there is no escape, now you amongst the dead you’ve
Found the uneasy peace of the after life at last.
No white light magically enchantment can break the spell, for too many lost 
Souls are woven within this tapestry of darkness; she lives this widow maker,
A spider known as Mrs. Winchester.
In the trees the voices whisper, the orbs dance in the swirling mists, 
The ethereal winds brush against the living and here the undead cry
In the valley of discontent.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN



Details | Gothic Poem | |

QUEEN OF THE DAMMED

An ancient evil is given life once more,
The heaven's cry out in pains remorse.
Daughter of darkness, deceits angel of death,
Beware unto mankind for bloods lustful temptress,
Speaking with a snakes fork tongue,
Nay she is a blackened cobra, spreading its hood,
Ready to strike, at the unguarded throat of humanity.
Legacy's malice, and hatreds decadence, bred this
Monster most deadly.
Frozen in stone, a cold heart beats, underneath
Lies the beast, with the face of innocence grace.
Nay a spawned creature from hell itself,
Awoken by loves vamperic bite.
Forsaken is she, the queen of the dammed,
For man are nothing more than cattle,
Raw meat to feast upon.
She'll strike with an unrighteous sword,
Slicing the very ocean itself in half,
It does so bleed with a crimson red,
As waves of bodies float unto the shore.
This is my kingdom of the dead,
Behold a birthing of a new world order,
Carved from mortal flesh and bone.
It's dawn arriving, beneath the full moons
Illumination, shall the sun never rise,
Within thus my deadened realm.
Her ivory white throne, built of human marrow
Drips with fresh redden over flow,
As she smiles with fiendish delight.
At twilight’s darkened hour, she'll dance upon
The graves of her ancestors,
For the Queen of the dammed has arisen.
Bow thee, and kiss her golden saddled feet,
She takes no prisoners, live and survive
At the goddesses leisure.
If you wish to stay, and see the
Final light of your kind to be extingusished,.
Say the Lord’s Prayer before
You go to sleep, this night my friend,
For tomorrows sunrise, may never
Light again against the distant horizon.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Details | Gothic Poem | |

Destiny's Clutch

The dawn spoke her name like a silken secret
carried carefree by the tradewinds of lust and larceny
imported from the traderoutes of paradise and pandemonium, 
sequined with violet venom she venerates the virtue of volition
her love is unlawful, unequalled in unrest, righteous in conquest,
tender in temptation, torrid your surrender, her beauty a will bender,

Queen of Empire Passion, warrior unknown to submission
her kingdom was not inherited, glory and throne ungifted,
the treasures, stables and territories, battles and crown all won,
rich in intellect, endowed with rare resources, affluent in original passion
bejeweled in natural beauty, she bewitches beasts and men alike,
Poets pen her preciously as Woman Total, Priests implore her pardon,
male servants pander to her anger and ardor, satisfaction she commands,
Sisterhood the symbol and soul of her mission,

I was just a man, a wanderer wading through her reign,
from the unsubdued North I came, a curious traveler with ancient name,
my tribe unfamiliar, underestimated, a Chieftain of steady pulse,
tresspassing towards her roots my aim was direct knowledge of her
woman of renown cunning and learning, woman of exotic ability,
seeking teaching and romance, though I would not be her Subject or victim,
this she knew, this she abhorred, a challenge to her dominance,

I agreed to meet her alone in the open morning of war,
in an abeyounce of gliding fire she comes riding out of the sun
regalia of black roses against red tears flying above her shoulder,
our horses begin a battle tromp, breaths heavy with moist mania
she has leopards in her eyes
poinsettias and death's palms painted on thighs,
scalps of exlovers and enemies slung on sadle
we acknowledge one another with ritual yell
I exclaim, Warrior Poetess, she screams Poet Warrior!
dismounting with mutual vigor our combat erupts
cutting my cheek with her blade's lip
kicking me in the ribs
I clinch her collared throat
and heel trip us to the ground
she snarls, I growl,
a glimpse of rescue in eachother's eyes -

J.A.B.

Details | Gothic Poem | |

THE CITY OF LOST SOULS

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

Details | Gothic Poem | |

THE SKELETON KEY

Wrought liquid metal, hued in the fire's of hell,
Pored into a castings shell, then hammered well,
By the angry fists of Satan himself, behold the skeleton key.
Accursed by evil's malevolent spell, one size fits all,
No locked doors can resist against its turnings twist,
Opening unto the supernatural's mystical power, and unlocking
Humanity's hidden passages and darkest corridors,
Leaving no secrets left unspoken or in silence.
Crimson blood spewing forth from corrupted key holes, oozing
Downwards unto the floor below, staining ancient
Tapestries of the royal gentries, and the upper classes refined.
Skull to the cross bones, it possesses a will of its own, 
A vile living entity, with its own consciousness.
Molding, reshaping itself at pleasures dark whim, 
Feasting on hatred's malice, then releasing it unto the world
Of men.
A twisted wanton thing, laughing with intentions cruelties,
And relishing in our agonies pain.
But Homo sapiens are a curious species, never realizing when to
Leave things well enough a lone.
We must know what lies beyond that forbidden
Door, where mankind is not allowed to trespass.
In these dark places of shadows ethereal, it rocks in a fetal 
Ball, a creature, waiting to be disturbed, go then seek what lurks therein,
If you dare, only the key knows what it really is, and it laughs,
At our ignorance, mocking us in the darkness.
Four it is the beast, chained and shackled within our worst
Nightmares, a fierce devilish demon, that pierces through the
Darkest of night, to hunt the innocent souls of wayward men.
You've have ventured to far, beyond thy safety zone of no return.
Four death lies in those reddened eyes that watch you within 
The darkness.
If you move it will attack, motions movements attracts
Attentions reactions, so remain frozen there is no safety's retreat
Thou'art trapped, again the key so laughs in the abyss,
Mocking at humanity's ignorance.
Shaking with anticipations glee, it begs the next
User to place it into the key hole, of the unknown, come along 
Now what can it hurt, just one little peek, let’s look beyond the crimson
Door, as the skeleton key heckles with unbridled happiness.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Details | Gothic Poem | |

THE HAUNTED HOLLOWEEN

It is the magic held within the darkness, the whispering of the night winds,
Echoing through haunted graveyards, cast are thus ancient spells, illuminated
Beneath the harvest full moon, in this eerie landscape the underworld is 
Released, and the undead are free to walk amongst the living, mingling on
This sacred holiday of mysticism, and it is so called, Halloween.
In the ethereal shadows figures move with shades dark eloquence,
As ghostly phantoms enchant the souls of the innocent, passions
Pleasures soothes the hearts of sadness, for tonight the very air itself
Is magical, offering a moments release for the spiritually condemned,
Until the last stroking bong of midnight, is heard off in the distance.
Sorcery's wicked witchy women, fly by sources unseen power of the
Supernatural, cackling with laughter's wild sounding of the jackal, do
They weave their intricate incantation's, to capture their victim's of hearts desire.
Blooming on the mountain side, the wolf bain does blossom, and hidden
Beneath its evergreen leaves, is the star gazer dressed within wolves
Furry garments, howling love sick, unto his ill fated mate, she so answers
With screams reply, and the pack adds another member, and now
These forbidden lovers run together, beside the path of humanities kindred.
Mischievous tricksters are they; poltergeists playing trick or treats pranks,
Vaporous creatures whom thoroughly enjoy frightening humanity unto 
Their inner most core.
But heed my warning dear friend; call no priest, for blessing sake for
These demons of mists, shall reek, havocs vengeance upon thee, 
Instead leave them well enough alone.
A twisted fellow is Mr. Jack-O-Lateran, appearing body less, with his head
Impaled upon fencing’s spike, what a Gringrichy grimace does he so make,
As a candles light aglow shines from within, his mounted handled top hat,
Exposing the freakish smile on his orange pumpkin face.
The vamperic ring master, on this night of horrors terror, welcomes the unwary
Traveler, to take part in this celebration extravaganza, come one and come all.
Let us so partake in these evenings’ festivities, El Carnival, 
As the children of the night, serenade mankind in the back ground,
Beyond our earthy realm.
As the mornings first rays of light, brush their finger tips across the
Horizon's canvas, the darkness is banished once again, creeping 
Beneath the under belly of the sun, as all evil creatures melt, and fading
Within the shades hollows, until next years celebration takes place once
More, on this darkest of holidays, called Halloween.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Details | Gothic Poem | |

Darkness Of Night

Darkness of night,
introduce me to what lurks
underneath your enchanting moonbeams.
I know that I should stay away,
yet, I am drawn to these silent things
that could easily end me.
I am not afraid of the supernatural.
I am spellbound, enraptured, mystified
by these psychotic creature's requiem dance,
that captures my soul
as it's own possession.

Darkness of night,
take me into your underworld,
where the arms of roaming specters
can totally envelope me,
like a densely tangled spider-web,
with no intention to ever let go.
Allow them to take me away,
to a deep place where, peacefully,
my dying soul can finally rest.

Darkness of night,
tell the devil only this....
he can have all of me,
to punish in any befitting manner.
I have already been through torture,
known pain, lived with loneliness,
and seen hell on earth.
The devil may care to try,
but he cannot hurt me any more.

Darkness of night,
say goodbye for me.
Shout high up to the heavens
and tell the sun it needs to shine
no longer on me.






Dark Poetry Contest



Details | Gothic Poem | |

THE HAUNTED

THE HAUNTED

In the silence darkness shows his presence, a lull and then acceleration,
A disturbance that awakens with dominance, the very heart of evil,
Dwelling within the inner sanctum of the Amityville house,
The stairway banisters shake with intensity.
A spectral quake and the walls become electrified with corporal power surges.
Lights flicker on and off the inward eyes of the house open wide as old bones
Quiver with anticipation like a hungry animal awaiting its feast on delivery,
Essence chills the air with a frosty mist, and fills the house with an eerie
Ethereal oria.
Rawness takes hold of the interior house, a graveyard erected on unsanctified
Property.
It has become a surge house for the supernatural.
The undead fee off the fear of men, who have been sapped of life force.
Nothing left except a dead corpse, caught between two worlds.
A vortex un-attainable by doorway or threshold.
There is a welcome mat marked by a skull n’ cross bone, it reads, “Dare not
Enter mortal flesh, or yea shall become part of this house.
Blood legacy forever.”
Voices within the walls scream with eternal fear, warning with howls, ‘Get out!”
“Get out!”
The evil laughs are heard o’er flowery wall paper that drips of crimson plasma.
It cascades downwards from the ceiling, soaking the baseboards.
Doors to the exist retreat and slam shut.
The window locks turn inward, and drapes fall shut.
No natural light to warm the icy halls. Trapped in a maze be-known as the Amityville house.
Small fleshless hands rip as the hair rises at the nape.
A voice whispers into your ear, “I am here, with you,” in the void you stand alone.
Panic fills your inner being; you’re alone in the dark with the unknown.
A mortal clinging to the edge of reality, a rift is heard, “CRACK” beneath your feet.
You are left dangling with two single hands grapping you, it and between oblivion.
Splinters of light hit the ebony trees from a distance away; Neha the Sacred Heart Priestess refines the grounds with her finesse.
Neha has a history of Exorcism successes.
It includes haunted house clearings, demonic possessions by forcible entry.
She casts them out with her outstanding humdinger light.
Her methods are un-cosher and as sporadic a whistling winds of tinnitus brawls.
She grates on those fallen soldiers who fin out too late that they have been duped in the army of Satan.
Neya raps on a skully warped door and scarf’s the threats that groan their way have
Inside of her.
Speaking in an insolent way she lets them know they have met their match.
Guttural sounds disseminate through the attic walls, and sent maggots scurrying
At her feet.
Undefeated, she picks one up and crunches between her teeth.
She presses bellows, n’billow, make yourself scarce as a tree in the meadow’
A howling voice in the meadow’ A drum and then with one last push n’shove the spectral flees through a cracked window.
Neha re-adjusts the amulet that had been strong-held round her neck, and says in calm voice” THIS HOUSE IS CLEAN’ then she sets out North, to find her sister’s three in the heart of the Sacred Forest.

Written By: Mystic Rose & Cheryl Dunn
For contest: Halloween Co-write
October 13, 2014-10-13

Details | Gothic Poem | |

Grace Thou Love Nary Forlorn----OLD ENGLISH

Her grace, she moves in poetry,
Tread cobbled path of wandering heart;
She speaks in moonlight spirit,
Thine treasure chest come undune,
'Till I lose mine feathers,
Frozen by her sole divinity;
She, found to mine lost,
Twixt these street exile redefined by her golden glory,
pounding on my chamber door;
I must forego the counsel of my twisted devils,
Rise from lay 'pon this brow beaten soul;
Swell into her wonder... lift love anew!
Heaven restore mine black gloom;
Her grace, she moves in poetry,
Spilleth' over, soothing matrimony.


~JSLambert                                      

                                                                             ©    PoeTTreeZ Publishing

Details | Gothic Poem | |

THE MUSIC BOX

Is it simply just a wooden music box?
Charming the human soul, with its melodic undertone,
What a hypnotic melody it so plays, enticing the listener
With its delicate waltz' sweetly strumming, exposing it's
Mystical quality of the supernatural
By its spiritual essence attractant, I'm thus so memorized,
A ballerina dancing in step, with the spell cast upon me,
Thus do so I spin, on this stationary pedestal, unable to move
On my own volitional power of chose and free will, 
I've be consumed utterly,
By the haunting tune, compelling me do its evil bidding.
The notes grow slower, unwinding until perfectly still,
But I'm not in a daydreams nightmare, I suddenly realize 
This absurdity is reality, has become real.
I'm that tiny figure within a child's musical box,
Frozen in stances freeze, unable to cry
Out for help, for made of wax am I now.
Then the lid is gently shut upon me, and in the
Darkness a sadistic voice, heckles and mocks
Me, speaking in musical notes it sings a deadly
Lullaby, rest eternal my beauty for you belong
To me now.
I've become a play thing to be tormented,
Languishing within this jewelry box.
Caught in this land of giants, whom wind
These musical chimes, to join me as a 
Prisoner's collection, of a thief called music.
Whom orchestrates this symphony of the demonic?
I dare not ask, for the voices anger would
Ravish what little is left of my humanity,
So I smile, and I dance at its pleasures
Whim, but within my soul a flickering
Ray does burn still, and it is called hope.
The music screams in terror's disbelief,
For the giants house has caught in flames,
And now he is the prisoner captured
Within a wooden tinder box.
I do so smile as I myself melt away,
Listening to the voice begging for help,
But no one comes to aid such evil as he.
But I am free at last, and except death
As a comforting friend's reprieve,
From the beast, is it just a simple?
Wooden music box.
 
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

 
 
 

Details | Gothic Poem | |

THE VAMPERIC PRAYER-DRACULA'S OATH

In the name of blood, for it is the source of life itself,
Plasma's crimson essence of liquid infusion, to the undead's
Pulsating heart.
Intravenously feeding cravings passion, through the carotid
Artery at the throat of humanity, thou'st not love, suffer
The pleasure indulge the pain, the out come shall be the same,
To be embraced by the black ebony arch angel of death,
Release thy darker side, let the instinctual behavior of the beast,
Know freedoms unshackling at last.
Become one of his sacred disciples, a creature of his dark dimension,
A kindred being, unto the legion of the night.
In the moon's elliptical light, shadows thus move from 
Left to right, shifting as transparent figures, phantoms of
Illusions, taking winged flight, soaring on the currents
Of air mingling with their ancestral brethren, the vampire bat.
Run does not the lone wolf, along the side path next to man,
As we do so walk amongst them, yet never attempting to belong.
Oh are we not the a shunned, the accursed, by a God known
For his forgiveness, to love all living things under
Heaven, but for us this mightiest of lords, turns
His gaze away, not acknowledging our existence.
Our we not his lost sheep, missing from his flock, why
Does not this Sheppard seek this black lamb’s wool,
Is it too coarse for weaving's wheel, as it spins thus
And is it not said that he created all life within his image.
Nay I pray this vamperic prayer, why has he abandon
Us, the darker of his creations.
Behold the unascended, begging to enter beyond the gates
Of light, children of the lost are we, seeking a father blind
To his responsibility.
Harvesting, by the basic instincts given unto us,
Taking only what we need to survive, for this he has turned
Against us, and thus taking the light of day with him.
So my father of damnation's hell, has offered salvation's
Darker domain as a sheltering harbor of comfort, I will not
Abstain his patronage.
For I am the ashunned, living by the moonlight's haunting glow,
Yet yearning to see one last horizons sunset, but the Holy Father,
Hears not my humble vamperic prayer.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Details | Gothic Poem | |

THE FAIRY MOUNT

Where did the little go, from ages of long ago?
Myth or legends stories unique, these small little creatures,
That beneath the evergreen?
Underneath the mossy sheave, tucked in pockets near
Toad stools rings, tiny shadows do so sneak quickly
Tip toeing ever lightly trying not to be seen.
But hidden deep in the Irish country side the 
Locals say they still come out at night to play,
These wondrous beings from mythical lore.
In the stillness of the first breath of night,
Something ethereal stirs, it whispers in the 
Darkness a quickening, a rustling, the winds
Tickling at the branches, as if coaxing.
Come out, come out, will thee not play tonight?
Low laughterious voices ring from under the thickets
Over grown hedge, at the very edge of a large boulder stone,
Be patient here we come.
The ground thus shakes at that instant, rumbling the
Very earth groans with amazement, what ancient enchantments
Mystical spell unravels expelling a magical incantation of old,
As the fairy mount rises upwardly, voices ring through
 The forest pines.
Here tiny trumpets announcing the Fairy Queens arrival,
Dressed in Golden gown, with dragon fly wings of grace,
A sparkling crown adorns her majesty, as she takes her
Throne of ivory white.
Gnome footman dressed in red and green vestments,
Open wide the doors at the fairy mount entrance, 
Allowing the supernatural beings living within to go forth,
Beautiful Fairies, mischievous pixies, and yes even Leprecons.
Singing and dancing until the first light of dawn,
Did the residents of the fairy mount play, drinking, celebrating
Until not a drop of honey wine was left to be drunk, or mead
To munch.
Then the Queen grew tired, and order the retreat to the 
Trumpeters to play, down below they all marched, until 
All were safely within their fortress of hidden secrets,
Then down did the fairy mount vanish, as if just a sweet
Dreams illusion.
But maybe some night you’ll stumble by accident,
Upon them again, and they’ll let you play along,
Mortal outlander until then all we poets can do is dream.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN





Details | Gothic Poem | |

THE HAUNTED BRIDE

In the night's chilling air a phantom figure, drags itself from
The watery edge of the river bank, emerging, rising upward
From beneath the moonlight's illumination, she is free, to walk
The earth's spiritual plain of existence once more.
In soaken layers shifts, of tatters whiten lace, the corporeal
Image moves across the old chapel's courtyard.
Slowly this deaden heart of the betrayed, shuffles through
The fallen autumn leaves, crunching them under the weight, of
Her drenched wedding gown.
The haunted bride, carries a wilted bouquet of for-get-me-nots,
As she weeps, walking down the aisle of past regrets.
This virgin maiden, sounds a low mournful sobbing, that echoes
Against the marble ruins, of a dilapidated church steeple.
Lifting skeletal limbs, step by step, this bride of
Desolation climbs unto the threshold of condemnation.
Her wailing screams grow louder, and louder with each
Movements, begging, pleading for salvation's penitence.
But in the Lord's realm, the haunted bride has violated the sacred
Laws of God, so is she doomed for all eternity, to repeat her final,
Moments of life.
Wareing the veiled shroud of death, beauty's once fare,
Is nothing more then illusion's shadow vision of the forsaken.
A victim of abandonment's fall from grace, for consumed by
Sorrows pain, did she take her own life, in limbo she is the accursed.
Slowly descending in sheer remorse, her tears cascade
Downwards, staining the holy soil therein, her unkempt train
Trails behind this ivory phantom, with muddy green
Seaweed woven amongst the antique lace.
Cold watery waves crash against the murky shore,
A foreboding eerie mist lingers up top the rippling lake,
One last air's stale breathe she does inhale, as again life's
Essence leaves, become just exploding bubbles,
Popping at the waters surface.
Here the haunted bride so does rest, in a fathom's aquatic crypt,
Beneath the dark abyss of no return.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Details | Gothic Poem | |

THE CATACOMBS

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,
Now deceased.
Sacred hallows of the darkness left behind,
Those not forgotten, but not remembered by
Names sake.
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
Supervised accompaniment.
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
Mortuary.
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
And mystic.
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

Details | Gothic Poem | |

AROUND THE CORNER

What evil power of the supernatural lies at the heart of the commentary?
Can you not feel when entering these rod iron gates, the icy chill permeating
From beyond these grounds of the unknown?
What raw instinctual force urges us forwards, propelling us into this tombstone
Receptacle of the ethereal waste bin.
It lurks therein as a vapors misty wind, a presence of a Dominic the essence of
Darkness, peeking around the corner of existence watching humanity as a voyeur,
Laughing at our inner fear, feasting upon the physic energy that connects the living
To those once a live now dead.
Bleed do the headstones of our assisters, warning us to leave this place of death,
Melting legacy’s names and their dooms day dates into oblivion, the very ground shutters beneath your feet, screams sounding board ignites your irrational sides
Basic instinct to run yet physically you can not move, panics realization sets in the
Graveyard wants you to stay?
It calls to you now, a voice that whispers ever so seductively, come join us, be one
With us, here know everlasting peace within these chilling arms of death, feel it’s Foreboding embrace enveloping your mortal soul.
It will promise you anything to stay but no it’s the mouth of the serpent, a fork tongues
Illusion, slithering towards you, back away slowly, never turn your back towards such
Evil my friend, for then it will strike at thee.
From your mental haze a flickering flame shines through it is a holier light, blasting
Outwards it strikes against the green-flame blinding you, with intensity’s almighty
Force it lunges against the darkness, beating it backwards from whiniest it came.
The fog momentary lifts and you run for your life, but in the night the voices still
Seem to cling unto your everlasting soul.
What lurks in the graveyard, what draws us there, our inner curiosity, to seek the Unknown hidden passageway, to the other side of reality?
What lies around the corner of the gravestones, it is a supernatural force of the Dominic,
And it calls unto the innocent,
Repeat after me, my dearest friend, the lord is my Shepard and I shall not want?

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN







 

Details | Gothic Poem | |

EBONY ROSES-SALEM

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
Roses/
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

Details | Gothic Poem | |

THE DOCKS

THE DOCKS
It spread as a plague across the waves, a thickening mist
Texturizing itself, by layers depths of degree, seemly evolving
Until nothing could be seen except the fog itself.
The vapor devoured and swallowed everything within its
Enveloping path, but beneath the world of men remained
Silent and still, as if frozen in pauses supernatural freeze.
On Lake Erie the witches’ winds screamed with a howling
Vengeances fury, against the Toledo basin, rocking the shore line
For miles.
The mistress of the lake waters, is a possessive temptress,
Unwilling to give up that, which she claims, as belonging unto her.
A bitter ban-she, of aquatic witchery, enchanting the living,
And dragging them beneath the waves of certain death.
Yet on the sacred night of Halloween, this witches spell of enchantment,
Is broken, and the undead are freed, from their shackles tethering.
From the murky fathom's below the lost ghosts ships, of Ohio's
Treacherous waters rise upwards, emerging bursting
Through the surface world above at last.
In old Iron Ville, phantom images restart these ancient factories,
Massive machinery covered in cobwebs, are breathing with life
Once more, as gears grind, against rusted cogs, and the sky
Fills with gray smog again.
Shifting free from the silt, and muddy bottom below,
Wooden beams slam against the harden shore,
Caked in seaweed's greenery, corporeal long shore men,
Wait to begin their after life's trade, to pull at the ropes
And secure these giants of the lake.
One by one, do they come forth ghostly vessels,
Steamer ships, wooden sailing crafts, even the famous
Edmund Fistjurald, a waits it’s hail for docking's mooring.
As the blasting fog horns blow, in the far off distance,
A blazing search light beams cutting outwardly.
Trying to pierce across the waters cresting edge, from the
Distant Sandusky lighthouse, a beacon shines biting and
Nipping at the heels of the foggy veil, to expose the way
Through these turbulent tidal under currents.
Its guidaning light directs all ships, home ward bound,
Both real, and the ethereal, to lay their anchors, unto shelters
Safe port.
But at the stroke of twelve the skies clear, suddenly the mist
Lifts as if sucked away, by an unknown force.
All visions of the neither realm vaporize, into nothingness,
And the docks of yore clasp again, unto the fathoms deepest
Depths, as if they never arose at last.
Yet on the shore line a child of man has witnessed these
Mysterious events, and will tell the tail long after the calm.
And he'll remember the sound. of the docks slamming against
The harden edge, of the lake called Erie.
 
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Details | Gothic Poem | |

Simple Suicide

Death is all in the mind
Thinking only of it for sometime
Will things be different or the same
When I am gone under my tame

Knife to use, to let skin flow
Blades from shave, let blood go
Cuts on the arm
Now fades, so don't be alarmed

Cuts on the leg
Look like dark threads
Slits on the wrist
Barely seen, it's a twist

Thinking it was over, how wrong
Hiding in the closet, deaf for long
Here, the face is purple pale
But still breathing well under life's spell

Running to the restroom
Forming the cuts again in my doom
My blood mix's with water
Turning pink, may not utter

Head first; deep
Thinking it will be better in my sleep
Diving in deeper, losing more breath
Knowing I could do it, it was like theft

Coughing up water from the mouth and nose
I quickly get out for my clothes
Sports bra seen
An idea rings

Again with the cold face
But dying wasn't a race
Stopping, for is wasn't too tight
Now I've face no light

Bed time rose
My face and my nose
Both covered by a pillow
I die my good fellow

Yet, it did not close this neck
Trying to find, I am recked
For a new way to end
So I won't have to begin

Choking at school
No one notices me, a fool
With my hands on my neck
Ready to ride hell's deck

Options were limited
And my life was sprited
Trying so hard
But there were no death cards

That's when I see
That this life was meant for me 
Now I waste no air in my fate
And stopped my early expiration date




Details | Gothic Poem | |

Lucy Westenra's Diary

The virgin page is spread before me,
pristine as this prissy white township,
and my own tameness is tedious,
and guts me, like the port-slaughtered fish.

I need to puncture the pallor
with black words, tough and dark
as the jet that veins these cliffs.
What courses through my veins

is insipid, light-drained.
Speared by these ink-dark thoughts,
what blackens my nights
like mourning jet?

Last night I dreamt
a whirlwind of wings:
amber-eyed gales of gulls,
ebon storm clouds of bats.

I feel the snare
of my engagement ring
tightening its finger-trap.
I shrink like a nightshade

from the sun's gold goad.
And I have learnt
that what is graveyard-cold
can be cremation-hot:

sultry breaths upon my breasts,
and a sharpness like a needle
piercing the lily of my throat.
By day I am porcelain-pale

with the primness of afternoon teas,
pleasant walks under parasols,
genteel small talk.
By night I am moon-white,

beckoning blackness in -
a harbour light penetrating dark,
luring a ship towards land
to snag in sand arms of the strand.

And a prow stakes moon-bleached beach.
Night lopes through streets.
Moon-howls loop, shadows leap,
wings at windows beat,

and a dusk-light lust grazes my throat.
Enter by moonlight or invite,
impale the pale;
I'm blood-wet with desires,

have needs to feed;
sinking and drinking in sunset red
that has bled and spread
like a staining of ink.




a slightly different take, for 'Be Bram Stoker For A Day' contest