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.
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.
Do you not hear the bells, my daughter,
tolling in the hills?
That is Death’s herald, daughter.
Feel how the night wind chills!
Do you not mark the sweet knells, daughter,
carried by the wind?
Death rides his gory horse to us,
your contract to rescind.
I stand above the place you lay. My tears will see me drowned,
for you have sold your soul to be once more above the ground.
And even now the vermin flee your coffin in surprise,
the earth beneath me churns and breaks and bubbles at your rise.
Now flesh and sinew cover bones once yellowed, moldy, black,
Your lovely hand breaks free and now there is no turning back.
And Death now swings his spectral scythe, and I must take your place,
but not before you kiss me once more on my ancient face.
The lack of rotting carrion no longer scents your sighs.
And Death himself has fallen for the beauty in your eyes.
The bells now tell of Death’s new bride. Be happy, and be well!
Now let my warming soul descend, your substitute in hell.
In the moments
where there are
breaks
in the mist,
you can still see them swinging
in the belfry with childish abandon,
and in our better days
knelled their notes like such, with innocent glee.
But now, in the
ever-darkening mist,
like abandoned children,
they were brought to silence,
and in the shrouded darkness,
they will also grow still.
No music,
not even muffled by the cursed vapors,
to continue their dance of song.
And all our joyless tears
float from our eyes to mingle
in the shadowed mist,
giving the lie
to happiness.
The nightmares of the innocent
begin when the
closet doors
are left open,
and foul and hungry things
creep under the beds
and hide
in the corners.
The barrier to the netherworld
is shored up and reinforced
by closet doors.
Be vigilant
in their care and cleaning.
Keep them free of shadows
and they will leave,
and wait
until
a more opportune time.
The hatchlings’ tiny, shiny feathers
gild and grace the handle of the pipes,
and all the peace in the world
that was never attained,
broken by the strife and suffering
of humanity’s merciless
love of power
over other forms of dust,
is healed in the smoke,
blessed by
colorful fledgling feathers
that will never
feel the sun and wind and rain,
and
master the sky.
All those ages past.
All these ancient gods.
All of these organs, bodies, and bones
tossed into all these fires.
All these prayers and offerings
of flesh, gold, and precious stones.
And the scent of all these flowers
and perfumes to hide
the stench of rot.
All these signs and sigils,
symbols, runes, and ruins.
All these spirits of light and dark,
summoned by all these tongues
speaking spells of power.
All silent now.
All dead forever.
All covered
in soil and sand
for
all time.
The tales grow brittle,
left untold,
The incantations, dry.
The knight, the dragon,
and the maid forgotten,
left to die.
The warrior and the quarry
cease their endless chasing game,
and all the wild in all the world
is culled, and dulled, and tame.
The story-laden stars go dark.
The magic creatures cry.
The lantern flowers give no light,
and fae no longer fly.
Beware the rift of magic
separated from the earth.
No hero comes to save the day.
There is no death or birth.
The stories lay forgotten now
on dusty, splintered shelves.
Thus we abandon to the void
the better of ourselves.
For those who clean the fighting pits
will never dream of glory,
to spill the blood of champions
and spill their guts so gory.
There never will be scribes to tell
the legends of their story.
To scrub away the offal of mankind
is ancient history.
In different lands
they call it by a
another category.
I’ve been made to understand
you’ve tamed the voices in your head,
and slaughtered to silence those
around your heart.
It’s no small thing you’ve accomplished.
You must yell ever louder,
and cut yourself until they bleed too.
Twist them slow and painfully,
like a rusty top forcefully pried
off the warped rim of a broken jar.
Grind them until their screams stop.
Take, then, the piece of you that survived the
furnace and the crucible,
and withstood the elements
of scientific arrogance
eroding the world,
and escape to
the quiet of your soul.
Watch the chaos of life leak,
streaking down the windows,
streaking down your face,
in the silent wailing
of the tamed voices,
and name yourself their
Master.
BlackQuill 