Long Dark fantasy Poems
Long Dark fantasy Poems. Below are the most popular long Dark fantasy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dark fantasy poems by poem length and keyword.
A strange, eerie, black feeling of despair,
I am lost, alone, no one seems to care
except the Moon who appears and prepares.
He throws me a long rope, yelling, "Catch hold!"
Noticing my doubt, "Have no fear!" he scolds -
"Believe!" I beam as unknown scheme unfolds.
Watching down below as upwards we soar,
I see Daddy and his friends - and Moon roars,
"Look, they're searching!." as my hope I restore.
Gently rocking mid air, the sky, my bed,
Moon covers me with clouds' blanket, my spread.
He lays me down on the path up ahead.
I awake as my head they elevate
"What's this long rope for?" one friend speculates.
Starting to tell them, yet I hesitate...
"I found it ... while playing down by the creek
and followed it up to where this hill peaks."
Begging, "Can I keep it?" my tale I tweak.
February 18, 2020
Edward Ibeh's contest: Pick a Title 14, Tristitch
In a literary context, the term felix culpa can describe how a series of unfortunate events will eventually lead to a happier outcome. fortunate fault.
he watched …
as it fell to the slate floor
glinting its polished golden husk in the
late morning sun
it should’ve bounced, as any
ring would of normalcy
but this, it was NOT …
leagues and lifetimes from it, actually
its behavior betraying the
dark matter within
as it landed with a single loud thud -
‘too loud’, he thought, as he
watched his dear little friend turn and
trudge away down the shire path …
he stood static to the floor
head dipped and eyes peering suspiciously at
it over half-lens spectacles -
as if looking at the devil himself
(not far from the truth) …
and after an overlong consideration
he stooped slowly and reached,
pausing a moment
(more debate)
then pinched it between thumb and
forefinger to lift it from the floor
but … it stuck …
he pulled harder, then harder yet
and finally picked it off the stone tile -
with much too much effort afforded an
object of its diminutive size
and this, as he placed it on the mantle beside him
(leering at it all the more)
quite disturbed him …
so, as was his usual custom at such
concerning moments
he ‘humphed’ to himself,
sat down on a leather hassock behind him
and dug his pocket, deep …
another pinch, this one unseen, and out
came a wad of Old Toby
straight into his churchwarden pipe
and lit with care -
weed-scented brume rings circling
his straggly silver locks
and disappearing high into the
shadowed eaves
along with his now shadowy thoughts …
this simple gold ring had
no simple history
this was a dark object of malevolent intent
forged in the fiery bowels of Mt Doom
and melded with an evil power to
obliterate all such talismans that
had come before it
and all to be made hence
he knew its history well, as any
wizard of import would
and he knew with dreadful certainty
that his life AND his path had now
changed in a troubling and
sobering way,
and that nothing in his once bright and
enjoyable existence
would ever again …
be the same.
A season out of the ordinary,
A season beyond the sculptured,
Disarray in the elements of nature,
Chaos in time and space.
Turbulence pervades the climate,
There's a disruption in the sequence of nature,
Twilight encroaches on the day,
Uncertainty looms over the horizon.
Humans seek a solution,
They search for an escape route,
Freedom from the shackles of a deviant season,
A way out from the tendrils of a dark continuum.
Mystery comes out of its chamber,
The phantom unveils itself,
Humans are burdened by an unbalanced system,
They’re haunted by their negligence.
November 12, 2022.
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 20 Poetry Contest,
Mark Toney.
A Sovereign in the Soil
He dug a deep, round hole in the dirt. He wanted it to look exactly like an old wishing well, a cruel trick to trap the demon.
At the bottom of the pit, he placed five holy books in a circle to block Marcus's magic. Across the books, he threw four heavy wooden planks, making a cage. Then, he poured a glowing mist over everything, the trapped energy of human souls. The souls bound the wood and books together like spiritual concrete.
He pulled out a silver bone flute. It was the same magical flute he had stolen when he first broke open the gates of Hell. He blew into it. The sound was a sharp, painful screech that tore through the night air.
The music forced Marcus out of the shadows. Marcus wasn't a terrifying monster tonight; he looked exhausted and terrified. He was a wishing demon, bound by ancient laws to serve whoever summoned him, but he had never asked to be brought to this cruel world. The music pulled at his spirit like a heavy chain, dragging him forward against his will. Marcus wept black tears, his glowing eyes begging for mercy as his legs moved on their own.
With one last breath, the man blew a loud note. Marcus tripped and fell into the deep, dark hole.
The moment Marcus hit the bottom; the holy books burned his skin. The four wooden planks snapped shut above him like a heavy trap. Marcus curled into a ball, sobbing in the dark. He was completely helpless, buried alive under the crushing weight of the souls.
The man walked to the edge of the pit. He took a simple brass key out of his pocket, the key to his own house. He shoved the key deep into the dirt and twisted it. With a loud click, the magic locked.
Marcus was trapped in the dark, a sad, broken prisoner held hostage by a greedy human.
Many years ago,
On a night so cold and still;
Vigilante justice,
Took place on Bonham Hill
Gathered all in numbers,
With torches held in hand;
No shred of heart's compassion,
They lynched an innocent man
Idle rumors echoed,
Throughout the lowly town;
Before the night had fallen;
Blood would soak the ground
I've often heard the story,
A fertile pack of lies;
Such petty tales of rubbish,
'Til I saw those daunting eyes
In the town of Lazy Willow,
At the foot of Bonham Hill;
Before the hour of midnight,
To the place where blood had spilled
Glaring beneath the moonlight,
Eyes fixed upon the tree;
I saw a haunting figure,
Staring down at me
His clothes were worn and tattered,
With pain refrained by tears;
And there before my doubting eyes,
He slowly disappeared
An ugly page in history,
Where ignorance held its fill;
Etched in my mind for eternity,
Is the ghost on Bonham Hill
He moves through the quiet corridors slowly--
Moonlight brushing over him like a second skin.
Most of his wants have worn down with the centuries…
But one stubborn dream keeps refusing to die.
Wind slips along the old stone halls,
each echo brushing the quiet hurt he hides,
burdened by grief and the long shadow of old wounds,
his once-warm heart has slowly worn down over the years.
He threads the misted woods,
Searching for what time silently took.
No fire to warm him and no hand to hold
only unbroken night and the bite of ruin.
Ravenloft grips him in its shadowed corridors,
its stones keeping the memory of old vows.
A quiet hold, a mantle of darkness,
and still he drifts,
threading the quiet stone halls of the old stronghold.
written 11212025_DMK
Loverboy staring out the window, the stars gleaming so prettily
The meadow's bathing in silver light of the moon; it is such a perfect night
Loverboy sighs at the darkness, candlelight dimming as the wind blows
The night of love is here with me. I have found the one to call my own.
Dear dear what is your wish, I shall give you the moon or the stars or the sun
I have known you since before I knew, that such a feeling can fill my heart
Loverboy looks at the sky he clasps his hands and bows his head
The night of desire is here with me, I shall ask her to be my love
Sweet sweet boy runs through the tallest grass, past the willow where he fell in love
Loverboy jumps over the little brook, where he met his friend and now his passion
Past the pine forest, loverboy flies, by the trees his love adores
Into the village, he skids and trips into others with their halfs under the skies of love.
Loverboy soars above the sky, conjuring a future where she becomes his, and he becomes hers
He dares not think of negative thoughts, deluded and delirious he imagines and dreams
Sweet boy turns a corner and two, colliding and pushing through the others who make him hope
One more corner, one more turn soon he'll be in his lover's arms
At the corner of his eye he sees a beaut, robes and ribbons fluttering softly in the wind
No doubt in his mind as fresh vanilla hits his nose, that his sweetheart is out in the night of love
But as the loverboy is about to run to her, he sees a man's hand entwined with hers
The way she looks at him and he looks at her, is the embodiment of the night of love
The loverboy stares- his love in love with another man
Slowly he turns his head to face away, he cannot bear the pain
He bows his head, dares not to look at the sky that gave him hope and filled his heart.
Through the village, past the pine forest,over the brook, past the willow he fell in love, he swims through the grassy field back to the window
Loverboy looks at the sky one more time, the brilliant stars look hazy and unrefined
One drop, two drops the tears well in his eyes, wets his cheeks and pools under his chin
Was I too late in making my feelings known? To whom shall I give the stars and moon?
Sweet boy closes his window unable to look, at the night of love and of desire
Shadow Man
Sitting in an empty room.
He watches down the hall.
As shadows move across the floor.
And dance along the wall.
His eyes grow darker like the room.
Cause to him it’s all the same.
Rejected by the light of day
the shadows call his name.
Sitting in the darkened room,
Where nighttime never ends.
He don’t seem to mind at all.
The shadows are his friends.
He listens to the whispers.
Carried in the nighttime air.
As shadows repeat secrets.
That someone dared to share.
Be careful what you say or do.
It’s part of a greater plan.
The secrets told that he may hold
the one called Shadow Man.
Edwin C Hofert
I do not know how men many we were
or how we went, what we saw on the way
nor do I know for what ungodly purport was ours
or what goaded us on into deeper uncharted territory
despite our tortured souls and aching bodies protesting to refrain .
I vaguely recollect through my befogged mind
some arcane words like Shoggoth and Mi- go and Dagon,
so much gibberish and blubbering babble of deranged minds
gone at once numb and addled with sights and sounds
forbidden to man in his wildest dreams and thoughts.
Through crenellated valleys grey misted in their troughs
and crests and covered with slime or ooze as from some
white-wormed denizens from unnamed and should-not-be-named
lairs in regions in deep damp grottoes of infernal charnel mounds
did I and my ill-fated team wander wild-eyed and unkempt.
Do not ask me what we saw when we reached our goal
for what my skulled orbs beheld or what my brain deciphered
I know nor remember not all semblance of sense and sensibilities
having fled with a volition not my own but driven by transfusions
of thought telepathically imposed from without from the miasma.
I know not whether to thank those who found me in the sorry state
that they did - a blathering caricature of the human form more ape,
nay, an ape has more intellect and dignity, than man- a creature more
fit to dwell in the mire and morass of a cess-pit than tread the same
hallowed soil or breathe the self-same vapors as civilized man.
It was far better still that the group of kindly souls, most rightfully,
had left me to my own contrivances and let me wander in my unknown
quest for unknown and mysterious things best known to myself once
but now lost to me forever.
I find myself in these padded and strait-jacketedand dreary halls of Arkham
standing at the edge of the precipice of an insurmountable mountain with
an abyss at the foot, both of interminable depth and dark as the devil's heart.
I have leaped from this vertiginous height perhaps a dozen times to end my misery
but having felt all the terror and thrill of finding absolution, I find myself here again,
and again.
Beware the young bastard that was birthed here by sin,
The silver haired boy beneath large piles of bricks...
Beware, beware, the young boy named Cage.
Beware, beware, he can't feel a thing.
He sits there chained down and we won't let him leave,
You see young boys are supposed to be smiling,
Running around town 'till their legs tire from running...
Not telling lies to cover for others,
Not telling lies to clean up their actions.
He asks food and mercy, but we won't let him leave,
He asks food and mercy, but his arms drip with blood.
And the piles of bricks are heavy, but you'll be fine, young man,
Yes, the piles of bricks are heavy, but you're supposed to be numb.
So sit there in silence, quit pretending to cry,
Sit there in silence, those tears are not real,
Yes, sit there in silence, your mother can't see you.
And it was quite frankly funny, when he started to cry,
And it was quite frankly funny, when he asked for his mom.
Pierce and Stab, Cage, why are you crying?
Pierce and Stab, Cage, we can all see through that mask you have on...
Beware, beware, the young boy named Cage,
Beware, beware, he can't feel a thing ..
...Then came the hour when the young boy was heard,
Then came the hour when his scream was too loud,
And too loud to be fake, too loud to mistake
For some sick staged performance but by then it was too late.
And the silence was piercing when we all learned the truth,
And the sun was now glaring once the lies were dissolved.
You see, the boy wasn't lying as he said that our town-world was small,
And he wasn't quite lying as he said that it all felt too much.
You see, he was caged for too long to not learn to crawl
And roll up in a ball,
To swell up, explode once there was nothing more to hold.
Young boys are meant to smile among beaches,
Maybe cry a few times when the world feels so heavy,
But Not being caged up to please other people.