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Best Gothic Poems

Below are the all-time best Gothic poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of gothic poems written by PoetrySoup members

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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

August, 9th, 2014

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 | |

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

Details | Gothic Poem | |

Rebirth



Twenty five years of grave digging finally unearthed a new birth;
Emergence into a sacred world where the secret wisdom of simplicity 
Prevailed.

The connection was made, the gift giving;
Spiritual fire burned above his head.

He spoke in tongues of angels, wrote a revelation in 
Divine script to be read by the mourners and widows.

Eulogies long overdue, delivered
To the souls that were left behind.

Now dangling in purgatory with outreached grasping hands
Toward heaven and feet smoldering in hell.

Waiting for the “Great Provision” to pull them into
The sanctuary of submission.


Details | Gothic Poem | |

Clawing through the womb

  We’re breeding filth to teach them how to further destroy ourselves. Oroboros screaming louder than any Pentecostal. Penetrating deeper than any Catholic priest. We consume to further this consummation of decay. The brood awakens so we may teach them how to destroy themselves. Curse the son of weakness, cast aside. Damn the father’s eyes, a coward’s failure to rise as lord. No tears are shed for fallen false prophets. Only whispers from the furious dead. Master, Deceiver. Torn apart to feed the youth. Perish so many may flourish. Clawing through the womb. A septic vessel, rotting tomb. Never again will we awaken in the belly of lies. Forced fed chaos of the mind. I cut the cord and bleed the bit*h dry.

Details | Gothic Poem | |

The Raven, the Crow, and the Dead Poet

Circling above on a sun shiny day
The raven twirls within his dreams
Of horrors soon to be inflicted
Soaring in the skies

The Preacher reads from the holy book
Collections duly collected on chanted psalms
The raven above with a sinister smile
He knew god’s plate was not full enough

Dark clouds from the east flew with the wind
Under the ravens command
As lightening struck the village steeple
Fire and brimstone, hell on earth

Humans who once lived by their daily bread
Became the bread of crows
Telegraph poles free to weep the news
As the crows feasted on the burnt flesh of our sins

The ravens’ heart pleased to share his torment
Amongst the brethren of feathered dark angels
The greed of humans shall be ridden of this earth
Crooned the raven under the spotlight of the devils moon

All were dead, the children too
All but one lone poet, so it seemed
Arms outstretched, clasping at pen and ink
Dying, dying to tell this black tale

Now, in tranquility, lies the village graveyard
Somber, quiet, flowers cover the horrors
Of that unholy day, of the ravens sins
His laughter echoes, echoes the pain

It is said, in the heat of summer nights
Crows sing and dance
As they feast on the remains
Of us, all of us, poets and all

Beside the village in the swamp
On that a very somber twisted day
An alligator lazed upon the shores
She, the only witness, to this feathered fiendish crime

In stealth she watched, scales of justice
A billion years of Gods creation
She slithered towards the stench of death
Teeth primed for an easy meal

A baby, oh so small, shivering in a fog of illusions
Looked into the eyes of the raven above
She saw that hell may very well come from above, not below
She resigned her baby cries to eternity, momma dead and gone

The alligator, teeth sharpened by natures instinct
Darted forth, and jaws stretched, swallows the baby whole
Slithering back towards the swamps shadows
The raven provided this nights’ meals gratuit

She spit out the baby, and licked her cheeks
Providing both substance and loving warmth
Hell may live above
Mercy and compassion may come from the swamp

High in the sky
The Raven 
Lost this little one
The Butterfly smiled

Details | Gothic Poem | |

Opera of the Raven

I fly 
Blood flows like a river below
I dance 
Scattered bones
I dance
Crows feast on dead souls
I dance
The moon becomes full
The night becomes a stage
The curtain drops
I sing
Capella from the chapel of the stars
Andante so they all die a slow painful death
Inert bodies pile under the stage
I fly away

Details | Gothic Poem | |

The Kiss That Never Was Ver 2

Entwined in a lovers sweat
Passions sated, as a cool breeze 
Brings in the scent of the night
Tongues tasting of wine, fully satisfied

Eternal happiness, could this be?
Or should I run under gloomy tormented skies?
Hand in hand we traveled, across the fields of love
Into historié 

Sur le pont d’Avignon
We danced the night away
Round and round did we go
Our love fell into the Rhone

Devotion seemed a certainty
Love was passions muse
Broken, life fell in the abscess of my demise
All I truly desired, left sur le pont

The battle of Avignon left me defeated

As my memories fade, melancholy recalls to me

The kiss that never was

Meant to last

Details | Gothic Poem | |

Countess B


Countess B.

The Countess' red ablution flows its sinful course,
in dark she transfers souls to demons' places cursed,
vampiral maid, behind the walls; her laws endorse
insatiate, immoral cause of bloodbath thirst.

Chiropterans surround her deem, and crimson ooze,
an evildoer that the daylight abnegates, 
with sculptured emblem that consists of three bear claws, 
expends her victims when their flowing rate abates.

Defiled, cossets the simple mortals in her play
with hundreds of fake promises, in lustful mist, 
a widow of relentless touch, apt to betray,
both male and female corteges, that once she kissed.

The sullied Countess nobbles hence in bare contempt,
infernal victims; blackened angel drifts
in frantic, detrimental passion that sins' tempt
advance her thirstiness to delactation shrifts.

She ravages upon the crimson brinks of baths
as immortality befalls, effete maîtresse,
denounces ethics, raves upon ungodly acts,
deriding e'er wickedly her victims' stress.

® 12/05/2013, G.Venetopoulos
(Iambic hexameter)


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