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.

 

Unearthed

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

hands.

 

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

together

on the storm-churned

surf,

as the

souls of her lovers

circle us

to the music

of the wind.

 

Unkindness

All we have done

is that which

you

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

chains.

 

And yet,

when I dream of

flying

with my brothers,

and finding a mate,

and hunting

on the high winds

of a glorious summer

 

Together,

you call us unkind.

All we have done

is that which you’ve

shown us.