They say a man's suppose to die when he sees the autumn sun
But I've thrown the dice and stagger forth with what I have become
For daggers thrown and lovers lie in turmoil and in truth
And I'm forgotten with all hope when I was a youth
I say thee not a sword-thrust clean did run me through to bone
With death approaching now I see you reap what you have sown
So carry me not a sailor's death for my life I would behold
To see the end most hurriedly for my story to be told
Blood from blood, bone from bone,
Under the partially eclipsed moon of a burgundy-red sky,
A murder of crows gathers on the barren carcass of branches,
Whilst mist clings to a chipping tombstone.
Hardened petrichor shifts ever so slightly,
Awaiting the awakening of revenge incarnate.
The witching hour is almost upon us;
Noir-cloaked figures emerge from the passing shadows.
A High Priestess holds firm an ancient Book of Shadows.
As the metaphysical clock strikes two,
Yellowed pages frantically flip to an incantation.
The underlings take their positions at the four corners,
While she takes her place in the center.
Chanting the passage simultaneously, resurrection is forthcoming,
As shrivelled nightshade blooms to ritualistic life
And the paramount witch returns from her unsettled slumber.
The Wheels of Dharma turn in their favour.
Scorched lands and vengeance follow,
As Armageddon ushers in a new era.
gone was the meek/downtrodden servant/girl
a woman stood in her place: cunning/ruthless
elegance concealed breasts more savage than any princess
ancillary fairy godmother's guidance
Cinderella manipulated/eliminated any rivals
path through fabled tales covered in viscera
meandering jars with lifeblood
she felt a surge:
pride/power/dangerous
each drop represented victory
no longer a mere dam(e)
steadfastly
eyes were bedroom shut conversation
earth had inhaled tenebrism
bending itself to her will
undead battalion advanced
gait erratically photo shopped
yet, propelled forward
unwavering fealty to their mistress of the manor
I awoke from a dream --
well, let me start again:
My thought was that I had
awakened. Yet, I rose quite
mistily -- with ghastly figures
hanging in the air, moving
to and fro, in possessed manner.
Swat at them, I could not. My
arms would not lift, my hands
seeming porcelain objects. Residue
stillness, long after the model
had expired, and the artist had eaten
his last moistened bread meal.
The volume of Poe, lie open
on the bedstead, where it had been
wearily placed, just before my
dozing. Strange, the last page read had
been altered...and the name highlighted
for death, was now my own. Could
this deranged volume and I have
mysteriously, mystically changed
realities? My name began
to burn, uplift from the page, the savage
apparitions swarming to tear hungrily at the
fleeing image. My soul drowning in drool.
Miss Leatherface masked with demons for the world
to face them, or get caught in the teeth of the abattoir psalm. Prove me wrong__
Skin peels back. Fingers branch.
Seeds sprout wings. Body art in hues of blue.
You burst into iridescent dragonflies.
Foxes grin. Ginsberg's Howl made of bark.
Fractal skies. A living mandala.
Jefferson Airplane's cryogenic supernova.
The ground goes liquid, a swirling tie-dye quicksand.
A harlequin paints the world magenta.
This ain't no picnic. This is the vortex.
Flying on a carpet of pure pandemonium.
Hurricane vortices of phosphorus green.
Insects crawl from beneath and consume your frame.
Every orifice, defiled and used like a subway.
Phallus-trains of centipedes pour from your ears, your mouth, your nose.
Eyeballs melt. Skin blisters to bursting boils. Spiders cover your shell.
You claw and roll, screaming, as a mahogany cigarette liquefies, revealing ME.
This never ends. The paradox begins.
Welcome to the Bosch Painting. My laughter, your shriek of agony.
Back to the beginning. My plaything.
Smooth as the vorpal descent.
MAKABRÉ MINUET-!?
An eerie stillness enshrouds,
the street I lodge in,
lone shadows loiter and lounge,
dark ink creatures peep
wet croak from a gaunt hermit,
slumped on granite bench,
faint cry from flitting figures
estranged by night chill
I am not certain sea
is always deep,
no-matter its depth --
As professed love is sometimes
only speech rehearsed, well prepped.
And the sun, though illustriously
shines, can be blind, victim of
self undulating light --
as all
stars, in time, blink out~ sliced from
the heavens by, the eternally appointed,
darkly shrouded, Ever-cleaving Scythe
of Night....
Clutched jaw, grinding teeth against pulp,
until ash and blood coat a deadened tongue.
The nightsong quiets—a pulsating silence encapsulates the land
as I walk up to a pyre built of withering dreams and deadly nightshade.
The cold, bitter air brushes against protruding flesh.
Looking toward the skies, faith stripped and shamed,
I climb and take my place among my ancestral spirits.
The silence of the night breaks, with chants of *Burn the witch* filling the void.
Leering eyes and foaming mouths scream obscenities my way.
But even among this fanatic freakshow, I hold on to my dignity.
I do not let them see the fear festering beneath my eyes,
nor does my lip quiver.
With insurmountable strength, I hold my head high
as I watch the torches preparing to set me ablaze.
Closing my eyes one final time, I breathe in everything I have ever held dear.
Memories flood—of loves lost and gained,
of the changing seasons,
of my connection to this glorious earth.
I can feel the flames licking at my feet now.
But I will not scream,
for my resurrection will come soon enough.
Yet again another light appears in the dead of night , Waking me from sleep with a majestic sigh
Yet a sigh I’m unable to grasp, gazing into the light, dwelling while it lasts
But I know the beam will soon die out, the light will be dimmed amidst the clouds
I will tilt my head and stare as the light fades away, wondering why such a sigh can never stay
Once again the night returns before my eyes, no longer consumed by the lies of the light
The deception that captivated my brain, must have been a delusion I made in vain
I’ll remind myself the simple truth, there was no light, there is simply darkness in the dead of night
And yet I know tonight, I’ll stay awake eager to see the sigh, waiting for my eyes to illuminated by the beauty of the light
I’ll wait for what is nothing but an illusion, I’ll stare into the darkness, trees and pollution.
Waiting for a so called “light” to return once again to conquer the night.
Her winsome smile belied her secret essence
A temptress and siren
Given to saturnine quintessence
And I a man of placid and calm complexion
Became ever more umbrageous
With each stranger she offered affection
Ciara Cybelle chose to take her chances
Unconcerned by my mood
Continued her frenzied romances
She swooned at my charm
And laughed at my wit
And yet held to another man’s arm
Ciara Cybelle a nymph out of hell
Twisting a man
With her temptress spell
I had to make her understand
She simply had to see
I must be her only man
But Ciara Cybelle laughed instead
Eyes flashing fire
She brazenly said
The likes of me would never know
The deliciousness
Of the charms she would bestow
On other men she found fairer
Then in a rage
I struck in blind error
And carefree Ciara Cybelle
Lay shattered and still
At my feet where she fell
To the dark waters I fed
The alabaster body
Of Ciara Cybelle dead
Now benthic stillness of cimmerian depths
Disturbed by the pale lifeless limbs
Of Ciara Cybelle
Now tumescent and water pruned
The once sempiternal beauty
Forever ruined
Sinister Shadowy Silhouette
Gargoyle
Eyes of stone are watching
High above the ground
Protecting from the evil
That lingers all around
Why must you old grotesque one
Dwell there all alone
What immortal sin did you commit
That put you on that throne
Somehow I feel a sorrow
I do not understand
For your are just a creation
Of a sculptures hand
Still something about you moves me
Should I even care
For I’m a free man walking
And you must sit and stare
striking f l a k e s of
w
h
i
t
e
p i e r c e through bitter cold darkness ~
stunningly
w
a
n
i
n
g
They say happiness is a flame,
brief as a match struck in rain.
I held it once—
a home, two sons,
a husband who smiled like promise.
Until his arms curled elsewhere.
Until his mouth tasted betrayal.
Until I learned beauty
was something I could not hold
no matter how tightly I bled.
The dragon woke in me that night.
Not scaled, not winged,
but clawed in grief,
fire burning holes through my ribs.
If he could snatch away my joy,
I would scorch his world in return.
My children—
his children—
became the tinder.
Their laughter, their small hands,
their faces shaped like his,
drowned in my fury.
But when the river stilled,
their silence came back louder.
My vengeance collapsed into ash.
I touched their lips
and begged them to breathe,
to forgive.
And when the willow trees bowed
like mourners on the shore,
I followed,
slipping into the water’s mouth,
hoping death would undo
what rage had done.
They say I weep at night.
They say I call for them,
cursed to wander, cursed to wail.
But tell me this—
what do you call a woman
whose heart became a dragon,
and whose bones still burn
with the tears she cannot shed?
Claustrophobic, saturated white walls constrict,
sucking the oxygen from every molecule of deprived blood.
Hypoxic cells circulate through an increasingly unstable body,
whilst rivulets of sweat flow from clammy palms.
Insomniac reality blurs with insidious shadows,
dancing upon the ceiling.
Naive faith keeps insanity just at bay,
but with each sunrise, hope is chipped away.
How much longer can a soul survive without respite
before it splits open—
spilling into the realms of delicious delusion?
Counting spots of dust in sunlight streams
now becomes the norm.
Two hundred yesterday—
is that two hundred and four today?
Slowly losing grip,
twisted nursery rhymes play out in a fracturing mind:
One, two, no one is going to save you.
Three, four, get ready for the relentless gore.
Five, six, they will play with your bones like sticks.
Seven, eight, for this occasion you better not be late.
Nine, ten, you are now in their sadistic den.
Praying for sleep, it never comes,
as reality dissolves
and this phantasmagorical nightmare commences.
Specific Types of Gothic Poems
Definition | What is Gothic in Poetry?