Macabre Poetry

Black and white photographs, Tattered in pieces on the floor. “How many times must this happen?” “Another love turned to dust.” “What have I done now?” “Have I not treated you well?” Take the tattered lies and smiles, Place them in the coals. Watching them burn it hurts to remember, The beautiful lies that drove my past. “Who is my next victim?” “Will I be good enough for them?” Photographs now ashes, I shovel them out of the pit. Stashing them with past memories, All the others that I have burned. I return to the pit. Staring into the dancing flames, I hear a voice beckoning from within. Sultry and sweet like a demon to a priest. Beautiful and terrifying, The woman takes a form. Dancing in the flames, Enchanting in her blaze. Wearing only a smile, She calls my name. Grabbing me by the hand. “Follow me, Follow me.” I pull her from the flame, Longing for a true embrace. She is gone, at least for now. Her hand burned into mine. Time after time and day after day, I return to t...

Dripping in anguish, Tears of salty blood fall from my eyes. “What more can I do for you?” “How long until I’m right?” Decaying under crippled flesh, My heart aches for understanding. “What more can I do?” “If you could only feel my pain.” Clear the infection from my ducts, Tears never quelch the pain. “What can I do?” “Words only spread the disease.” Intoxicated on unknown words, Can’t even make a sentence. “I don’t want to hurt you.” “I will take the pain.” Hold it in, You know you will. “Words only decay in my angry breath.” “Happiness lost, sadness has spread.” Hold on to your pain, Never let it go. The beast will continue to dwell inside. So she will never know.

Bitter is my hatred, Marble to be your only marker. There will be no stones on your path. Dead to me, Killed only by yourself. Trust was given now condemned. Asleep to stay, Now and forever. I will make sure you never wake. For I stand, Upon your corpse filled coffin. Weighing you down to your dark hell. Deserved by many, But mostly you. Suffocating on embers and coals. You can never speak, Not here or in the life after. Severed tongue from jaw. Unrecognizable at your funeral. No point to an open casket. Alone and forgotten is your fate.

My vision attacked by a haunted gaze, As it feels has been all my days, Staring up at this ungodly tower. How high does it go? I come from a village of tiny homes, Wrecked with hunger and loss. To see such a structure caressing the heavens, Lights fire to my brimstone soul. “How could someone own such a thing?” “Whatever could one do with it?” “The space endless, the view unending!” But still he sits upon his bench and stares. Up at this building, how high does it go? No man on God’s earth will ever know. So the man left that marble bench, Returning to his humble cottage. When the man looked outside, To his surprise, A man dressed elegantly top to his unscuffed boots. “Who could this man be?” The man sat not on a bench or on a stool, But on the ground, in the mud, and hay. Gazing upon the village people as they worked and played. “What I wouldn’t give for just one day outside of my misery” “This man is not like any other I’d say.” “To have so much and want so little?” “For ...

Walking in the same steps. Day after day I pace this street. Allies dark and molested by smog. I pierce the dark veil. Same conversations. Same “How are you(s)?” Same response. “Adequate, I bid you adieu.” One moment in time. Yet years have been the same. Give me one day away, Absent from the bitterness of England. Carriage wheels cracking against the cobblestones. Whipping of horses. Passengers with no known path. Seeking out thoughts unknown. Daily I watch as I veer through the streets. Daily I listen to their elegant speech. Eager for love and conversation. I eloquently reach out a hand. “Whom of you dares to speak with a devil?” “Who dares to speak of centuries past?” “Who would choose to speak with a beast such as I?” “Hello My Lord.” A beautiful voice caresses my ears. “My Lady, how may I serve thee?” Blushing she smiles and steps forward to kiss my outstretched hand. “I need an Angel in this darkness, What may I call thee?” “Dominique, but you can call me Demonia.”