Horror – Page 8 – Poems by Sam

Entombed

Good afternoon, everybody! I’ve got another little piece today. Something sadder than the last one. Without further ado, please enjoy.

Entombed

The writing, my dear.

Scrawled there on the wall;

can you see it?

Those old runes…

What could they mean, my darling?

Chicken-scratch, sure.

But what if?

What if there is something to them?

What if it’s about us?

What if it means something?

All of it.

Can you read it?

Interpret for me the symbols of antiquity?

You always were smarter than me.

I am confused.

Something you’re all too familiar with.

It made me angry before.

Now?

A hollow sadness.

Memories and dreams reverberate through old and decrepit halls.

Could you…

Could you help me remember?

What am I doing here?

Where was I going?

Who are you?

Who…

Who am I?

Oftentimes, I feel as if I live behind a mask, one made from all those things which obscure the things that lie behind. I feel as though my heart would break at the very sight of my own face, not to mention those of others. My mind is addled, rife with holes, ripped apart and sewn back together time and time again with each passing day that feels like a year. It is not even two o’clock yet. I am told that time goes faster as you age but my own experience has been one of aching deceleration; my sense of time continues to slow down. Each passing second threatens to become a lifetime, lest I find some way to lose myself. A devastating cycle, truly. Without further ado…

Back, Behind The Mask

There,

in darkness abounds

on that far side of the moon

a face from brass

and eyes from glass,

and in this face

one might see

something seldom seen

in reflections past.

Lights that pass

betwixt the stars

time and time again,

illuminating

and

elucidating

those things

so seldom seen

in times that have passed.

Entombed by iron in steely visage,

behind this mask lies an unspeakable image.

Every garbled word

and metal clang

belies a gentle soul

caged and shackled

in alloys unkind.

The Plight of the Firstborn Son

Good afternoon, everyone! I have been so incredibly busy that I have hardly had the time to write though it is with a glad heart that I would present to you a new piece written by, and you may have guessed it, yours truly. While I hope that you enjoy it, I do hope that you don’t relate too strongly to the images it paints in your head. That would break my little old heart. Without further ado…

The Plight of the Firstborn Son

The plight of the firstborn son,

that one,

the only one,

his hazel eyes.

Reflections,

refractions,

green and gold and amber…

Nothing quite like him,

you know?

I look into his eyes,

my eyes,

seeing someone I never recognize;

someone I never fully realize.

His eyes, they change in the light.

If only it were,

that you could tell

what he’s supposed to be.

What is he supposed to be?

All alone

inside his head

through stained glass

I peek and peer.

What is this man?

A boy who sits upon a pew?

A man who lies when you already knew?

No pattern,

I don’t recognize…

There’s nothing all around.

Kingdom of Heaven

Good morning, everyone. I hope you’ve all had a wonderful last couple weeks (especially without my writing cluttering up your feeds). Please enjoy the piece today! Without further ado…

Regicide

Painfully wrought

in chains of iron,

the things they’ve brought

of ash and ire.

I fall asleep

astride the clouds,

falling deep

into the crowds.

There is some meaning

to be gleaned

from things demeaning

and things uncleaned.

Unsafe again

inside my dreams.

There in the fen,

that fetid light gleams.

Perfect, porcelain, helmsman

who thought himself a vase,

pleasing, pristine, a madman

who thought himself in diapause.

One braggart

who swaggered

and told them all his plans.

Deserted now,

his many lands.

The Mare

A short poem today, though perhaps not the shortest. I would sincerely hope its words do not resonate too much with you, for it is in my deepest sorrow that they come to me. Regardless, my friends, I do hope you enjoy. Find some solace in it? Without further ado…

The Mare

Adrift again

upon that familiar sea.

The waters below,

through them I can see,

all along the seafloor,

memories of the dead.

This sea of dread

upon which I have found

fell waves and foul beasts

that weather and wear

my flimsy raft.

Of sticks and fibers

and stones for ballast

I’ve crafted from the isle

my life-saving companion.

Always does the Lord provide.

Dread timbers sail

and flags forgotten fly,

almost as if

the ghosts mean to help me along.