Tamed Voices

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


The Echoes of Ruins

Inside the old ruins

with vermin filled walls,

their boisterous voices still

ring through the halls.


How dazzling the jewelry,

the elegant gowns,

the best of the people from

best of the towns.


The thrill of the invite,

the calling by name

of every arrival

with fortune or fame.


The dark spirit no one saw

enter the space

was spreading his presence

all over the place.


The party grew louder,

and lewder, and crude.

The nobles were commoners,

servants were rude.


The atmosphere shifted

from festive to hate.

The dark spirit, watching,

decided to wait.


The sounds of the bacchanal

split the night air.

The dark spirit giggled

and fired a flare.


His cohorts arrived

and the violence began,

the fights and the sex

and the red sins of man.


The fires raged free

and the screaming was shrill,

the stones rained like hail

over castle and hill.


The dark, evil spirit’s

residing there still.

Don’t stop there. Don’t go there.

Your soul he will kill.


Where Did the Magic Creatures Go?

Where did the magic creatures go?

Perhaps they’re sealed inside the wall:

the fairies, elves, and goblin kings

are waiting for the children’s’ call.


Where did the magic creatures go?

Perhaps they’re drowning in the sea.

I hear them in the quiet night.

They’re coming from inside of me.


Where did the magic creatures go?

They walk above in skies of blue

The trip and fall into the mind.

And now they come from inside you.



Perhaps the artifact you unearthed

was waiting for you.

Perhaps not.

The ancient wraiths of your fathers bear witness

to your own thievery.

Doubtless, the dormant curses will

begin to manifest.

The sleeping souls of the past

stumble as they walk toward the light

they’ll never reach.

The old soil encrusting your stolen treasure

is crumbly with dreams, fertile with memories,

and yet, nothing grew.

The redolent scent of the earth’s loam

gives way

to an afterbirth of blood.

Perhaps the artifact will break your clutching fingers

and release itself.

Perhaps not.

Errant and True

The scratching of the quill is like

an errant clock that’s ticking.


The drumming of my fingers is

a stuck gear wheel that’s clicking.


My fondest memories of you

like flies to glue are sticking.


My darkest dreams meander

through sharp nettles that are pricking.


The birds of paradise do flee

as hellhounds scent the sadness.


They howl their invitation loud

to join them in their madness.


I turn and try to run away,

and demons fill the darkness.


To brand upon my wretched heart

a beauty turned to starkness.


But there are no regrets here, friend.

Just tears and sighs and crying.


And now the morning sun so bright

is rising while I’m dying.


The drumming fingers start to slow,

eventually grow still.


The heart that beats so softly now,

keeps time with errant quill.



The Herald of the Vampire Queen

I gave her word

he waited in his

dark and incensed lair,

to taste once more

her grave-cold flesh,

and stroke her

fiery hair.


She ran upon the

cobbled streets

as fleet as I could wing,

To find him slumped

and bleeding

in the strong hands

of her king.


“This thing that you

betrayed me with,

you love it more than me?”


“Did I not come at midnight here?

Have you not eyes to see?”


The king had slain the vampire lord

with sword of silver true.

“And now, my unclean, tainted love

I’ll do the same to you.”


She fought him hard but

futilely, ‘til I removed his eyes.

“Good servant, feathered herald.

You have helped me win the prize.”


My head was at a curious tilt

as she breathed out her words.

She struck the blind king fatally,

and fed her carrion birds.


A woman’s heart is fickle,

and its motives e’er unseen.

It will betray a vampire lord

or mortal king,

for Queen.

The Souls of Her Lovers

I follow this girl in the hopes of

something uncertain,

even as

the sea wind tugs at me like

a small child with entreating, urgent



There are threats within the deep

to snatch me from the air,

and so I must be wary.


These orbs,

bright and small and pink,

have voyaged here from

watery graves

to surround her with

the fervid attention

she drew from them

in life.


When she tires

of their

flickering affection,

she will feed them to me.


Then I will feast,

and dream

of being a man

worthy of

her love.


For now,

we dance


on the storm-churned


as the

souls of her lovers

circle us

to the music

of the wind.



All we have done

is that which


have shown us.


Here, in this cage,

in view of the sun and sky,

the wind puffs at my wings,

teasing like a

mischievous imp.


I cannot sing.

I will not cry.

And I will

not stop

pulling at these



And yet,

when I dream of


with my brothers,

and finding a mate,

and hunting

on the high winds

of a glorious summer



you call us unkind.

All we have done

is that which you’ve

shown us.

The Lovely Eyes of Death

The lovely eyes of Death were dark,

no white in them to see.

She passed me in the marketplace

and smiled and winked at me.

She fought me on the battlefield

but saw me safely home.

And holds my hand when traveling

as o’er the world we roam.

Revealing mortal wounds that we inflict on girls and boys,

Her laughter rings displeasing at whatever she destroys.

Sometimes when she is holding me,

she’s gazing at the sea,

but is the sunlight dying there for her,

or is it me?

I know one day she’ll look at me and say to me, “It’s time.

“So kindly end your story now,

and rhyme your final rhyme.”

Until that day I hope to fill the world

with works of worth,

Death’s lovely eyes the last I see,

ere I return to earth.

My Childhood Nightmare Wants a Kiss

My childhood nightmare wants a kiss.

He would not be denied.

He chased me ‘cross the bitter winter sea

with rolling tide.

He chased me through the wooded hills

and though I tried to hide,

he wanted it so badly that he

hunted with a pride.

He chased me down from northern climes

into the humid south.

“Come here, my child!” he yelled downhill,

“and give me your sweet mouth!”

He chased me from exotic east

to more pedantic west.

He chased til I could run no more

and granted me no rest.

And so I turned to face him,

ragged, dirty, out of breath.

His face was moonlit, shining eyes

a glazed, glaring eldreth.

My childhood nightmare got the kiss

he would not be denied,

and as he touched my cheek he wiped

the dark, sad tears I cried.

I took his face in hands of love

and kissed him.

And he died.