Tag Archives: ghosts

Asylum Fiction

Walk away, in a field of soft roses

Taint of blame and corrupted blood

Pointed fingers pricked on thorns

Carving out olden scars of liquid gold

.

Bloated bodies twisted like vineyard green

Of jealousy, of crushed lies, of purest arrogance

I’m a mere suture away from a finished letter

So cut my chest wide open and read all my sins

.

Surely, these careful feet won’t shatter on glass

That broke beneath the creaking floorboards

Ending the same—trickling droplets of roseate

Infatuated with bliss and miasma, vials of life

.

Almost unattainable, phantom cold to the touch

Picturesque memories sparsely hanging onto the

Dusty hallways crawling with naphthalene ghosts

Roaming, distorting portraits and jagged mirrors

.

And outside the garden terrace, in a field of soft roses

Porcelain bones are buried underneath, blooming with whispered prayers

From a catatonic past, long faded and frayed at the edges

Will you walk away now, or dwell until your soul withers with the seasons?

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

sulk

influences

on the red of

her lips, and

her cornflower

hair glowing,

an autumn moon

sulking by a

riverside bank

as pastel waves

kissed out the

drought of spring

and i remembered

how to forget…

bruised knuckles,

twisted hallways

filled with ghosts

that no one can chase

but her all alone,

and a room which

held my dark fears

but never let them out.

and left nothing but

silent discontent,

wrong phone calls,

her umber eyes under

the influence of tears

until they turned red

and drifted off into

a sleepless dream.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Pestilence Perpetual

Leave me in the cold, you better run away
I’m gonna dig a hole and bury all the memories we’ve made
I don’t need your condescending, words about me looking lonely
I don’t need your arms to hold me, ’cause misery is waiting on me…

~*~

It’s more than what I wanted, more than what you’d take

Misery’s just another flavour, company’s just another taste

In the palatable infections built to burn our tongues acidic

As sulphurous words are enough for the poisons to inhibit

Our ghosts might go on, but you would have to kill me first

Just to prove that I’m sincere, and that’s better for the worst

Eyes spinning under aerosol plumes, drunk on opiate fumes

More than anything, I stay awake as your parasites consumed.

~*~

I am not alone, not beaten down just yet
I am not afraid of the voices in my head
Down the darkest road, something follows me
I am not alone ’cause misery loves my company…

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

The Backyard Boneyard

In the backyard where stars are buried

The moonlight’s dim, no spectres solid

Black bats avoid the sharp razor trees

And maggots festered under disease

.

Hell awaits, encased in cold grey stones

From coffins of red and velvet bones

The devils bartering souls for sale

Salvation was but a fairy tale

.

Lost souls vie for their damnable fates

Pray to saints only when it’s too late

Decaying like fruits, plucked rancid fair

Monstrosity farm, ripeness they bear

.

Centuries pass, generations chime

Can’t turn back the decomposing time

Ghosts fed to minds to lead them astray

Again the cycle completes its prey

.

Cemeteries of death and roses

Existences gone with no losses

In the backyard where stars are buried

The moonlight’s lost in shadows solid.

Leave a comment

Filed under Fixed Poetry, Poetry

The Bone Orchard

In the bone orchard of midnight lavender

Branches pale and bleached, devoid of colour

Where the moon is solemn and stars are buried

Under shadows and overhead darkness florid

.

In the bone orchard of midnight lavender

Where no fruit bears and life burgeons never

Drowsy breeze pushes skeins of leaves wilted

Fluttering like grotesque wings of a raven threat

.

In the bone orchard of midnight lavender

Chill with solitude and still as stagnant water

Black bonfires flicker in garish admonition

As brooding souls wander and moan in perdition

.

In the bone orchard of midnight lavender

Where the restless death shall thus repose forever

Droves of vermins under groves of tales entombed

Where the spectres and spirits linger in their gloom.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

☆ me ★

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

i never cared much

for a mirror.

frivolous and vanity

and terror

at what you might

see there

like ghosts or parallel

to give scares

but what chills me

personally is

not the monsters or

distort oddity

it’s if i looked into a

mirror and

don’t fancy what i see

and it’s not

a spectre, but simply

just me.

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry, Southern Constellations

☆ i get ★

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

eyes

flitting restlessly

like

fireflies in a jar

and

blinking sullenly

like

a burnt out bulb

heart

pulsing madly

like

an anxious cur

and

tic rhythmically

like

a music box stir

as

fingers tapping

quick

with twinkling

toes

breaking that

silence

of lost ghosts

i get

a glass of white

wine

and drained the

glass

nervous for the day

that

pain shall finally

pass.

♫•*¨*•.¸¸♪

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry, Southern Constellations

Sun

In a world of

bleak apparitions

that haunt nights

in coldness

and darkness

and shivering toes

with curses

and quick prayers

uttered to fight

them all away

.

I ask, please

let me be the sun

that rises daily

and smiles back

and shines bright

to see another sky

i wish, please

let me be the sun

that isn’t afraid

of ghosts.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Democracy For The Dead

“The graveyard is not normally a democracy, and yet death is the great democracy, and each of the dead had a voice, and an opinion…and they were each determined to be heard, that night.” ~The Graveyard Book; Neil Gaiman

~*~

A whisper lost in chasmic shadows, seemingly hallucinatory sound of a slither

So let the strangers talk loudly and blither, let their rusty voices echo and shiver

Roaming souls naked, stark, transparent, inert bodies ever decaying and withered

In a place meant for utmost silence and misery, yet it buzzes clear with deathly hithers

.

The resting and the restless all have their personal stories to purvey and entail

But unfortunately, dead rotten men and dry dusty bones can’t possibly tell no tales

Their unheard opinions, smoke from their mouth, are transformed into wispy grey fog

That haunts the cemetery, rolling, choking, tendrils, the cleanest air it clogs

.

The sick and the diseased, the victims and the murdered, the horridly executed in hate

The innocent hearts alongside the thieving rats, all are equal and have one final date

They all pray for democracy for the dead, to let their sussurus voices do some justice

Listen very closely in the dead of the coldest dislimned night, and one just might hear them speak.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry