Gothic. Poems

Rebirth Of Law

Just In Headliners:  
A sinister come-back 
Falsity applies, a genuine bible hack
In a Dracon stratosphere, a reincarnate 
Harsh is a nice word, worst of the worst
Anticipating being heard, spitting at the herd 
You don’t understand how good you’re at it
What awaits us lonely hobbit 
Acute awareness behind lips whistle 
Missiles of angst, a killer

The shadow whisper

It’s whispers.
Can you hear them?
I don’t want to,
but they force me to.

Sitting in an empty room,
with no one—
just a cigarette in my hand.

Every time it touches my lips,
it kills me
and makes me want to avoid it—

I know that cigarette is not good for me,
but I like doing something
I know is going to kill me.

But he

I had blood on my face

I had blood on my face. Dirty. Gracious. And… disgusting. Blood dripping on my face. Didn’t know it. It just smelled bad.

When I looked at my face in the mirror, I thought… that the mirror had the blood.

I kept cleaning it. Cleaning it. Rubbing it. With my arms. With my palms. With my fingertips.

At the

Grim

I am not certain sea
is always deep,
no-matter its depth -- 

As professed love is sometimes
only speech rehearsed, well prepped.
And the sun, though illustriously
shines, can be blind, victim of 
self undulating light -- 
               as all
stars, in time, blink out~ sliced from

The Silence Before The Flame

Clutched jaw, grinding teeth against pulp,
until ash and blood coat a deadened tongue.
The nightsong quiets—a pulsating silence encapsulates the land
as I walk up to a pyre built of withering dreams and deadly nightshade.

The cold, bitter air brushes against protruding flesh.
Looking toward the skies, faith stripped and shamed,
I climb and take my place among my ancestral

The light

Yet again another light appears in the dead of night , Waking me from sleep with a majestic sigh

Yet a sigh I’m unable to grasp, gazing into the light, dwelling while it lasts

But I know the beam will soon die out, the light will be dimmed amidst the clouds

I will tilt my head and stare

Ciara Cybelle

Her winsome smile belied her secret essence
A temptress and siren 
Given to saturnine quintessence

And I a man of placid and calm complexion
Became ever more umbrageous
With each stranger she offered affection

Ciara Cybelle chose to take her chances
Unconcerned by my mood
Continued her frenzied romances

She swooned at my charm
And laughed at my wit
And yet held to another man’s

The letter on the fireplace

Do you like mysticism, anxiety, atmospheric rich imagery, layered within mythological meanings?

A bending of surrealism, personal confession, and fantastical imagery of obsession?
(A lone voice whispers)

As if cursed by the son of perdition

As I go about my final solo mission to gain admission 

With Aphrodite's dead ringer, who whispers songs of exquisite rendition

A window opened and

Tears of the Dragon Collab with Ink Empress

Within the creeping shadows,
do you think you can find me?
Before chaos implodes my soul ~
I’m lost amongst childhood
memories, pounded to ash and dust,
clouding my sight,
as silence stifles my screams.

Whilst rivulets of water collect
around cracked soles,
cold liquid rushes
with each word left unsaid,
rising as foreboding
talons scrape against the ballast
stones of despair.
Spiritual hunger gnaws at my insides,
pain filling

Dark Shape And Outline

Sinister Shadowy Silhouette

Gargoyle

Gargoyle

Eyes of stone are watching 
High above the ground 
Protecting from the evil
That lingers all around

Why must you old grotesque one
Dwell there all alone
What immortal sin did you commit
That put you on that throne

Somehow I feel a sorrow 
I do not understand
For your are just a creation
Of a sculptures hand

Still something about you moves me
Should

A True Story

One need only open an old chest, or turn on a light in an attic, to journey back in time. Every scrap of clothing, old photograph is a life and a history. Essence remains.
     As I often write at night, while many of a more rational world slept -- pacing, muttering

waning snow

striking  f l a k e s  of 
                                    w
        

The Dragon Weeping in her Bones

They say happiness is a flame,
brief as a match struck in rain.
I held it once—
a home, two sons,
a husband who smiled like promise.

Until his arms curled elsewhere.
Until his mouth tasted betrayal.
Until I learned beauty
was something I could not hold
no matter how tightly I bled.

The dragon woke in me that night.
Not scaled, not winged,
but clawed in

Naive Faith

Claustrophobic, saturated white walls constrict,
sucking the oxygen from every molecule of deprived blood.
Hypoxic cells circulate through an increasingly unstable body,
whilst rivulets of sweat flow from clammy palms.

Insomniac reality blurs with insidious shadows,
dancing upon the ceiling.
Naive faith keeps insanity just at bay,
but with each sunrise, hope is chipped away.

How much longer can a soul survive without

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