Tag Archives: Horror

It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Psychosis

Good morning, everyone! I’ve got a post today that I think you’ll be quite fond of. Perhaps you’ll gain some insight, perhaps you’ll gain some enjoyment. Whatever the case, I think you’ll be intrigued. Without further ado… Please read responsibly.

Company

Can you hear?

The sounding of the drum?

The beat,

the chorus?

Sitting there between the shadows,

kicking my feet at the edge of the world.

All alone now

in the quiet dark.

The contrast has never before felt quite so stark.

Those drums again,

there,

in the distance.

Can you hear them?

Hoofbeats that draw ever closer.

I think He’ll be coming soon.

No matter,

I needed the company.

Rhythmic tones beat in tune with every thump and thud

inside this broken God.

The motor’s out.

I’ll scream and shout.

No matter,

I needed the company.

Spirit of the Times

Good morning, everyone. There is much I must take care of, much I have to worry about. In the meantime, I’ve a new poem for you all to consider. Without further ado, please enjoy.

Zeitgeist

Ghosts and specters swirl around

in graceful twirls they do abound,

with their cold touch they do surround,

now feeling lost but never found.

In the bin out there in back

on account of such that I did lack.

My head and hands these thoughts did wrack

on account of that thing which I did lack

and something there I’ll not get back.

I see the ghosts across the water…

Nay, upon the water.

My mind then starts to wander

about those things that hearts do ponder.

Philters and phials could not save

that man which breaks and makes insane;

there is some feeling that does not wane

no matter who the ghosts arraign.

Though it seems the tide is low,

the water tends to encroach slow.

Most decide to go

but while I’m still here,

I think I’d like to know.

Crepuscular

Good afternoon, everyone. Have you ever looked into the twilight? Have you ever seen them? Those crepuscular things… Perhaps they look more sincerely into you. Without further ado:

Silence of the Lived-In Ghost

No.

It is so.

They cannot see.

No, they cannot see.

Those things that find their way

into these eyes of mine.

They do not know.

How those ghosts cry out…

No, they cannot see them.

They cannot hear them.

Their cries,

their screams.

They cannot see those eyes,

the eyes of ghosts

inside their hosts.

I have seen the dark,

how those ghosts traverse it.

Caught between the night and day,

it’s past their time

with nothing to say.

No, they cannot see them.

But these ghosts, these specters,

they haunt my nights

and stalk my days.

Perhaps it is so

that I am among them,

watching and waiting

for my time again.

Caught between the night and day

in that little place

with nothing to say.

The Banks of The River Lethe

Good afternoon, everyone. You have died. You stand here, like those heroes of old, on the banks of that sacred river Lethe. Your ascent to the heavenly realms of Paradiso now secured, you step carefully into the dark and starkly opaque water. Your sins, desires and memories washed away in sacred bliss. As a child again, you are innocent, no longer condemned, but redeemed. Welcome to the rest of forever. Without further ado…

Settling Debts

Haunting orbs

drift across the water.

They come towards me,

stealing away my light.

I am fading.

I flash and flicker;

I am the torch over which your fingers

quickly pass.

The specters

take my flame.

They wear it

and make themselves whole.

I am as the hearth

in that certain dearth

that follows November.

Swept away,

is all my heat.

Through the mist

is seen defeat.

I know why they’ve come:

The debt of one infernal sum.

I cannot pay,

I’m ashamed to say.

This will make their day.

Dollhouse

Good morning, everyone. A little post-halloweekend post for you to have a little fun with. That’s my piece for today. Without further ado…

Collector’s Edition

This boy,

he sparkles in the light.

Oh, how the night

gives him quite the fright.

Scared and alone,

he cannot condone

dialing a number…

Hearing the dial tone.

There he is!

In that box.

So filled it is

with pus and pox.

Walls of glass

so he can see

as things go by

and things go past.

All the while

this placid smile

plastered with that porcelain guile.

Won’t you just… stay a while?

There.

By the window.

He sees your face go past.

Perhaps this time

it won’t be the last?

There abounds a certain sadness

within which lies a certain badness

centered on that box of madness.

These walls of glass,

these eyes of brass,

should not this boy be like a doll,

always filled with gladness?