Tag Archives: sad

Adventures End

Good afternoon, everyone. I have another poem today (shocker). I really hope you like it. Without further ado…

Adventures End

There and back again,

as in the style of old hobbits,

we go and have our big adventures,

on our quest against the dark.

We fight with swords,

we fight with knives,

we sail on ships

and meet old wives.

We’ll tread along the untread paths

and we’ll make friends

and we’ll make enemies

and we’ll fight the dark

and we’ll never lose

till the soles fall off our shoes.

And then will come the cobblestones

that form the path to home.

Why have you fought all this time,

but for to see that little village

and that spongy loam.

Now though,

that you are home,

what is it then?

The thing you must do?

When tyrants bend

and adventures end,

does it all simply go back to normal?

Who is this one that stands before you?

The same one?

The old one?

No, I don’t think so.

Darkest Demesne

Good morning! I hope you guys are ready for a steaming helping of cosmic horror because, boy, have I been cookin’! If you’ve ever enjoyed Lovecraft or you like that movie Annihilation with Natalie Portman, you’ll probably dig this one. Let me know in the comments what you think. Without further ado…

Darkest Demesne

Atop the mountain

lies a fortress.

Beneath the stones,

lies a fountain.

~

Unnatural and indecipherable,

the masonry tells

the story of a being

whose presence trails

the very last of the bells.

~

In the dark,

It comes;

My master.

To quell the living disease.

Upon that stroke of midnight,

I make haste to the gate.

I whisk past maze-like halls

and labyrinthine corridors

to the old and battered door,

covered by runes and chains,

behind which It slumbers.

As I venture deeper into the dungeons,

where no light penetrates,

I begin to hear the distant, disembodied, interminable screams

that haunt my every waking moment;

I come upon the fountain.

The waters glow faintly with a distinct sickly, violescent purple.

My head, again, starts to pound as I draw near,

the intricate designs of the stonework calling out to me,

reaching out, yet again.

A sacrifice must be made.

I draw the sacrificial blade

and move it gingerly to my shaking, outstretched palm.

I make a ragged cut.

As my blood drips into the fountain,

the wailing quiets for a moment.

I am knocked from my feet by a gust of wind that tears at my skin like sandpaper;

all the while, Its howls reverberating throughout these dark and desolate halls.

This formless, black mass, blacker than the dark that surrounds, alights and descends again upon the town below.

It hungers.

It feeds.

I envy them as I watch the color fade from their faces

and the blood drain from their veins into the pool before me,

its purple waters now flowing crimson before my eyes.

I fade in and out of consciousness and find myself again in my bed,

in my chambers.

~

My torturous servitude remains immutable.

I am bound to these old cobbled stones and dark, cobwebbed halls.

I was once the lord of this castle,

but in my hubris,

in my… ambition,

I called upon powers most foul.

I cannot remember the last time I saw the light.

~

Now…

My master.

It calls again.

Amphora

Good morning! I’ve got a poem inspired by ancient greek history for you today. It’s been one hell of a year for me so far. I finally graduate in December. I suppose I’ll have to change the About Me page. Exciting! Without further ado…

Amphora

Empty vessels,

these amphorae,

they stand the test of time

with so many stories

laid upon their old and tired skin.

They tell the tales

of long-forgotten ails,

of ancient whales

and ill-remembered pales.

On them are the histories,

the scorching, burning blisteries

that would assault you

at a touch.

They care not for you today,

locked in everlasting clay,

locked in everlasting decay.

Blood trickles down the face

of an ancient warrior

entrapped by monster’s embrace.

Entranced as you are,

you cannot stray,

you cannot look away.

Not from the sight of such dismay.

Crimson pools at its base

and soaks your filthy shoelace.

Perhaps there’s something to this old and empty place?

Battered and bruised,

you’ve made good on this chase

but coming to a head,

now you’ll realize that there’s just far too much red.

Brilliance of the Erstwhile Mind

Good afternoon, everybody! It’s been a while since my last post – my apologies. If it’s any consolation, I’ve certainly been in the kitchen. Just cooked up a hell of a poem for y’all today and I sincerely hope that you enjoy it. Let me know what you think in the comments below and don’t forget that you can follow, donate or contact me with links at the bottom of the “About Me” page. Without further ado, please enjoy…

Brilliance of the Erstwhile Mind

Awash as he is in prismatic violence,

assaulted by waves of color and silence,

the man opens his mouth to let out a scream

and nothing comes out but bubbles and steam.

~

Lacking lungs to breathe

and breath to seethe,

this cold and empty violence

rips and tears the skin away

in shrieks of angry violets.

~

Unabated, the silence grows louder;

his ears fill with crushing deference;

humility.

Screeching as the banshees do.

~

Fleshless, violescent, iridescent hell;

it scrapes the skin from his skull,

exposing his tissues to the void.

Forced to reticence and destroyed.

~

What beauty comes from this?

The ending then of bliss?

The dream of but a single kiss?

~

Then, there, in his final moments

he’ll dream of the beginning,

the middle,

the end.

Purgatorio

Good morning, everybody. Happy Saturday! It’s been another little while since my last post, but I’ve got a really great one for you today. This one throws in a little bit of greek mythology for all you nerds out there. Without further ado, I hope you enjoy.

Purgatorio

Bounding, pounding, resounding…

nothing takes the pain away.

Medicate, premeditate,

nothing takes the shame away.

~

So very still

does he sit,

upon his perch,

looking down at all the things;

“Why,” he wonders,

“are they all so far away?”

~

“The One who put this all together,

can you see the very lies that you have told?”

“Can you see the very lives that you have sold?”

He would ask these questions of that One,

thinking himself so bold.

~

No answers will be given,

only grievance will be wrought,

and on his high-up perch,

he thinks he’ll roll a die.

~

“One to three and I’ll be me,”

he trills to no one in particular.

“Four through six…,”

he laments

as he slowly turns his hand

and the die is cast into the Styx.