A Strangling Silence

by smithaw50, posted in Blogging 101, Dark Poetry

How silent now, these pretty streets.

The bells no longer ring,

for weddings nor for funerals.

No children’s chorus sings.

The bodies rot in sun and wind.

The blood has long since dried.

The scavengers have had their fill.

For decades, no one’s cried.

Their open eyes long plucked away,

their stilled tongues taken too.

No youthful knees to bend in prayer,

and pale skins tinged with blue.

No, no one knows what killed these kin

in this barbaric way.

And soon the moon will rise, my dear,

so here we cannot stay.

The silence here has

strangled every single spirits life.

The butcher’s table just as full

with mutilation’s knife.

The rising wind now lifts the stench,

and laden tree boughs sway.

It drops into the silence

like a phantom touch to say,

We must not tarry anymore,

so come child let’s away.

We’ll leave the strangling silence

here to speak

another day.

So far behind, in silent wake,

to speak another day.

*art by Carole

Lilac Lane

by smithaw50, posted in Blogging 101, Dark Poetry

Many have lived here through the years,

marking centuries of generations,

making obscene amounts of wealth.

And there were times such as now,

when evening clouds harvest the shadows

from the ground,

and blood runs in red rivulets

between the well laid stones.

You wouldn’t know this to look at it.

The lamps provide solace and comfort

from the gloom,

but when the fiends accost you

their faces are no longer hidden,

and your life is no longer yours.

Over the years they planted the lilacs

so the coppery scent of life

was as masked as the fiends that crave it.

Screams were seldom heard,

and just as suddenly silenced.

Pleas to be spared went unheeded

and echoed through the streets that trapped

prey with its charm, then gave it over

to things best left in gloom and darkness,

not soft lights and pretty scents.

Leave now before the evening stars appear,

before you slowly dissipate into the

unclean afterlife that snares you with its perfume,

and leaves you to rot.

Hollow Spirits

by smithaw50, posted in Blogging 101, Dark Poetry

These temple steps, once bright and festive,

let the best of us ascend

to dwell with our gods.

Then came others

from different temples,

with weapons in hand, curses in their throats,

and blood on their minds.

In the midst of the last festival,

we were slaughtered lambs.

All the colorful robes, gowns, and masks…

stained with blood and smeared with

the gore of broken skulls.

The songs became screams.

Terror, despair, pleas for mercy.

The music drowned by the sound,

and plowed under by stampeding feet.

*****************************

I come back now, the lone survivor.

Standing on the moonlit steps.

Standing in the silence.

Standing in the sadness that we,

so high of thought and deed,

could think divinity would bother.

They tossed us crumbs of coincidence

and called it blessing.

And with the passing of time,

we aged and grieved for our naivete,

so new, fresh, and hopeful.

And even now,

standing on shadowed,

silent steps,

we fall lifeless into the earth,

and grieve

for the hollow spirits we once

revered in love.

Lenore’s Raven

by smithaw50, posted in Blogging 101, Dark Poetry

Lenore’s a raven of her own 

that no one’s seen or heard.

She comes in false dawn’s early hours 

but will not speak a word.

And yet Lenore inclines her ear

to hear within its mind

what so disturbs the bird to 

seek her presence for its kind.

I wonder what it tells her

in the room of sunny light,

when all its ebon pinions seem

more suited to the night…

“Your cousin mourns ‘the lost Lenore’,

  and cries the whole night long,

  and asks for respite and nepenthe

  In his mourning song.”

  “My brother sits upon the bust 

  of Pallas o’er his door,

  and there your cousin smiles at him,

  it seems, forevermore.”

    “Perhaps you should now go to him

     and tell him that you’re whole,

     not waiting on the hellfire 

     to scorch your very soul.”

     “That you did not return his love

       will ever break his heart,

       and yet your honesty did have

       no edifice of art.”

       “Tonight, again, he’ll search for you

         among his many books.

        Go take to him the balm of your

        intoxicating looks.”

“Don’t come to him

         the black clad witch 

         and harridan you are.

         And tell my brother we must leave,

         for we must travel far.”

         “And no, we shall not speak again,

          and I will miss you sore,

          but he and I must once again

          plumb night’s Plutonian shore.

Our feathers paint the shadowed stars

of night’s Plutonian shore,

to never dwell in Pallas’ light again.

No, nevermore.”

        

Midnight Cafe

by smithaw50, posted in Blogging 101, Dark Poetry

Here in the candlelight

under the stars,

the empty table and chairs,

intimately close,

welcome customers even at

this late hour to take their ease.

The owner who lives upstairs

still works by his

own light.

He is balancing his books,

recording his inventory,

and trembling from fear.

His fear never abated,

not even after what

they did

to welcome him

into their circle.

His preternatural patrons

kept the place open long after

they slaughtered his friends,

neighbors, customers,

and family.

They allowed those who fled

to settle elsewhere.

They pay him with all sorts of things.

Jewels, coins from centuries ago,

and the occasional comfort of

one of their own kind.

And though he’s past the ages

of competent consummation,

he takes what comfort a widower can

from a form he doesn’t love, since it vaguely

reminds him of a form he once did.

He weeps when she leaves.

He sleeps when the sun’s up.

There’s no industry to speak of,

nowhere for him to be.

They provide all he needs, and

during the nights, no matter the weather,

they expect him there, standing behind the

well-worn counter

to serve them.

He fills their cups, glasses, and steins

from the corpses on tap,

hooked to copper tubes that feed

the pouring station.

The flavors range from

fresh to rancid.

He adorns the drinks

with cherries, or strawberries,

or slices of mandarin oranges.

The punctures in his neck throb,

an ache

dull and faint as a whisper in the dark,

with even more power to

hold him in thrall.

They will never heal.

Tonight, it’s quiet.

The only sound is the

scratching of his pencil

on the paper.

He will leave the list on the table.

One of them will take it and fill it

before he runs out of what they require.

They will bring

fresh bodies

in due time.

Leaning back in his chair,

he puts his glasses on the desk

and rubs his eyes.

In a few moments,

the pencil’s in his hand again…

Not much longer to go.

But oh, so very much longer

to live.

Purgatory’s Gates

by smithaw50, posted in Blogging 101, Dark Poetry

Wait here, child.

The blood on your hands is unclean.

The shadow on your soul is darkening.

The cold of your heart is consuming.

You have asked forgiveness,

pleaded for mercy,

begged for new life.

The deities are undecided.

They meet in council, even now,

to discuss and barter for your soul,

shadow-soaked as it is.

They have no power to cleanse it,

but want it for their own purposes.

Are you ready to surrender it

without conditions or demands?

If they burn it, will you be

satisfied.

If they use it for their own petty ends,

will you be at

peace?

The ravens come to guide you,

and the bell sounds,

muffled by the mist

as the gates open to

embrace you in clouds,

or receive you in clouds of flames.

Are you ready?

Blood Roads

by smithaw50, posted in Uncategorized

The last of the fight was over,
and the crows called the vermin.
I did not need to stay any longer
for the gorging that would
sate beasts for weeks
on end.

I walked out
into the pending darkness,
the last rays of sun
a reflecting pool
of the slaughter,
the last drop of blood and light
trickling into
the clutches of an ebon sky.

It was enough.
I welcomed the silence,
and the chill in the air.
The knife was heavy
on my hip,
and spirits whispered to
use it and throw myself
on the altar of death’s peace.

I don’t know how, or why
I resisted the call.
The gory blood reeked,
and my lungs begged for
air that only distance could give me.

And so, I leave the carnage
and feast behind me.
Maybe the night will grip me
with fear.
Maybe the day will greet me
with mercy.
Maybe the spirits I made
at my blade’s bidding
will haunt me
the rest of my days.

But I live, and I walk, and
leave my worn, weary
boot prints in the mud
of the last
Blood Road.

The last of the fight was over,
and the crows called the vermin.
I did not need to stay any longer
for the gorging that would
sate beasts for weeks
on end.

I walked out
into the pending darkness,
the last rays of sun
a reflecting pool
of the slaughter,
the last drop of blood and light
trickling into
the clutches of an ebon sky.

It was enough.
I welcomed the silence,
and the chill in the air.
The knife was heavy
on my hip,
and spirits whispered to
use it and throw myself
on the altar of death’s peace.

I don’t know how, or why
I resisted the call.
The gory blood reeked,
and my lungs begged for
air that only distance could give me.

And so, I leave the carnage
and feast behind me.
Maybe the night will grip me
with fear.
Maybe the day will greet me
with mercy.
Maybe the spirits I made
at my blade’s bidding
will haunt me
the rest of my days.

But I live, and I walk, and
leave my worn, weary
boot prints in the mud
of the last
Blood Road.

All Over

by smithaw50, posted in Blogging 101

They run in the rafters.

They knock on the door.

Sometimes with no warning,

they’ll rise through the floor.

They come from all over

to answer your call.

That you didn’t mean to

means nothing at all.

“You owe us a blood debt”

is what they will say.

“We’ll soul-snatch your spirit,

your flesh we will slay.”

They’ll watch from

the fiery corners of hell,

and grant you the wishes

you tossed down the well.

So then, when you see them,

you won’t die of fright.

Just follow them, follow them,

into the night.

Just follow them, all the way,

all through the night.

Moonless

by smithaw50, posted in Blogging 101

The evil things men hide from view

(seen all too plainly by their gods)

will make him fight against himself

and even set his heart at odds

with everything that’s good and right.

For distant stars, though they burn bright,

seek not to illumine misdeeds

done in the shadowed black of night,

while spirit flees when body bleeds.

Reading Tomes by Candlelight

by smithaw50, posted in Blogging 101

Researching tomes by candlelight,

the old library smells

of tea and flowers, parchments,

and Indian ink wells.

Along here with the candlelight,

a fire crackles low,

and in the shadows of the shelves

dark laughter echoes so.

The dark and dusty shelves are full

of dark and dusty lore,

and spells to summon love sublime

or terror at its core.

The hairs and hackles of my hide

now stiffen in the air.

Of malevolent presences

I’m suddenly aware.

“What is it that you want?” I called,

but only silence came

in answer to my query

and the quelling of the flame.

Now sitting in the utter darkness

terror binds me still,

and all the will within me

chooses ‘cower’ over ‘kill.’

I know not when these things will slay,

they play with me the while,

and snarl and snap the air nearby

with fanged and feral smile.

They close the distance daily,

incrementally it seems,

So reading tomes by candlelight

yields nightmares and mad dreams.

I’ll leave the book and note for them

to find here in the day.

I don’t know if my corpse will be

devoured or on display.

Explore the tomes at your own risk,

perhaps your luck will hold.

Just know capricious spirits

have no use for human gold.

And maybe friend, just maybe,

they will bind you to the fold.