Tag Archives: funny

Good morning, friends. I have for you today the story of a man, a man who lives alone on a hill. A man whose ever encroaching madness and loss he may never recover from. His mansion on a hill was once his dream, but now the grounds lie in disrepair and the house in ruin. No one knows what’s happened to this once bright, compassionate, socialite of a man. Care to find out?

---

How It Creeps

I yearn greatly for something deeper.

Around the wall

grows a twirling creeper.

Through the gates

and down the chimney.

It always gets inside.

“Without proper maintenance…” they might say…

But it’ll always have its way.

As the creeper waxes,

so too does my heart wane,

shrinking evermore, forevermore.

The gates overtaken,

the courtyard is theirs,

the kitchen and the parlor

both fallen to the vine.

My only respite is the bedroom,

our bedroom,

only it has been long since we called it that.

The vines,

how they whisper in the dark,

clawing at the door.

I can hear them growing in strength,

tendrils slip between the cracks.

I dare not move,

I dare not creep,

surely still they’ll be there in my sleep.

They can hear the way the floorboards creak.

Alone, I gaze into that mirror,

that one we shared those years ago

and look upon a haggard man,

one you would not recognize.

He is one that I don’t recognize.

As the vines begin to wrap around me,

I can almost hear your voice again.

I can almost hear the children.

I will join you in your madness.

Perhaps I’ll ask them. It is their realm. Immortality. It would seem that man’s one ultimate pursuit is eternal life, the avoidance of death, whichever way you put it. Why then is it so that there are those among us who one day hope to die? To live a good life and to die, moving on to the next frontier? I have yet much life to live, but some day I think it would be nice to know that I can leave and I’ve been the best man I could. The next adventure always awaits. Enjoy the poem, friends.

---

The Immortal

This poison heart,

with its venom and its vitriol,

there’s something deep inside it,

rotting out the core.

I sip my glass of nightshade tea,

and eat with it my anthrax scones

and cyanide peach preserves

in the hopes I’ll numb the pain.

But no, i cannot die,

I cannot rest until the promise I’ve kept is kept and i might have peace again.

No, I cannot die.

I’d break a promise that needs fulfilled,

a promise to not die,

a promise to be at your side for always

and forever.

I lie in wait,

my poison heart,

hoping for a cure,

but here I fear,

it won’t be near

for many, many a year.

I feel its tendrils slowly encroaching,

slipping and sliding,

growing in my chest.

How black and withered does a muscle grow

under such neglect?