Tag: horror

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Dead Eyed and Dreaming

Dead eyes of black glass
Awaken to a world
Caught within a storm
And cloaked by night.

White, cracking skin
Is covered with
Weeping wounds
That will never heal.

Its silent, screaming mouth
Gapes open,
Filled with flies
And black saliva.

Stinking.

Rotting.

The cursed form
Lurches into servitude.

Its back is scarred
With a thousand lash marks.

Loose, hanging skin
Moves in an unnatural way,
As though something squirms
Beneath the surface.

Dark ebony wings unfurl.

Black feathers fall
Like autumn leaves,
Dried and brittle,
Crumbling into ash
As they touch the ground.

Barefoot,
Clothed in dirty muslin
And rotting flaxen rope,

Filthy hands
Grope blindly
At the air before it.

Bent and broken,

Formed from sin
And torment,

It steps weakly
Into the candlelight.

Dead-eyed,

And dreaming.

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Encounter

Her eyes flashed brightly in the moonlight,

A hungry stare,

White fangs

Behind hollowed mouth,

Then,

The devouring.

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An Ending

At last,
The beast screamed,
Old black blood flowed,
From mouth and wound,
until its body fell still,
silent and lifeless.

They lay together.
Broken.
Silent.
Her staring eyes
Fixed upon the abyss.

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The Eye of Grimvale

Spotted first from the starboard side,
A fearful captain gazes upon the Ocean of Dreams,
And there, the great green eye of Grimvael,
The immortal serpent of sorrow, stares back,
Its endless body stretching outward,
Vanishing into distant stars.

Without warning, the serpent descends;
Black scales and ocean spray shroud the sailor in mist,
Creating a terrible stillness,
A silence held between breaths,
Before the mighty serpent erupts from the sea,
Its vast eye unblinking as it crashes once more into the depths.

The creature’s wake topples the ancient ship,
And as the captain treads dark water,
He cannot witness the nightmare from above,
As Grimvael’s immense black jaws open,
Rising from beneath him in dreadful silence,
Before snapping shut,
Consuming sailor and ship alike,
Then slipping beneath the dreaming sea for the last time,
Returning the sparkling green waters
To a terrible, waveless calm.

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Beyond The Weeping Gate

I’ve been me so many times now,
That I am lost in the echoes of myself;
I hear them calling, hear them calling,
From beyond the weeping gate.

There the shadows kneel in silence,
Wearing masks I abandoned in softer years,
Their mouths stitched shut with old confessions,
Their eyes like drowned lanterns beneath black water.
They beckon without movement,
A congregation of former griefs,
Gathered where memory rots in black corridors,
And time hangs damp with suffering.

The house within me has grown cavernous,
Its stairways descending into impossible rooms
Where sorrow sits upright beside the fire,
A patient dust covered harbinger of grief.
It knows me by every mask I have worn,
Calls each by name in the language of mourning,
And pours black wine into trembling hands
That no longer remember which flesh is mine.

I hear them calling, hear them calling,
The selves I starved, the selves I feared,
The silent twins of all my failures,
Their fingers pale upon the rusted latch.
Beyond the weeping gate they gather,
Neither wholly dead nor wholly memory,
Waiting where the dark folds inward,
Where sorrow flowers into sullen shapes.

For doom has lived beside me always,
A patient guest seated near the fire,
Its hands folded neatly in shadow,
Its smile thin as winter beneath the skin.
It speaks not of endings but of returning,
Of circles drawn in grief and dust,
Until I no longer know if I am haunted,
Or merely wandering the ruins of myself.

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Hewn Together

Stitched together from corpselike flesh,
Two fractured halves now beat as one,
Two broken souls once torn apart,
Dance beneath the waking sun.

But soft, hewn together forever,
Two lovers force light from the dark,
Like yonder light through broken windows,
Kindling fire from a dying spark.

Loneliness no longer lingers here,
Seated in the dress circle alone,
The symphony of this communion,
Turns silence into something known.

And when life’s chaotic theatre closes,
When the stage lies empty and still,
Two hearts remain in quiet defiance,
Beating together beyond all will.

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Nameless and hated

I hold a warm fondness for his stitched despair,
For Frankenstein’s Adam, condemned by a stare;
Made without consent, despised for his frame,
Cast into hatred before he knew his own name.

He was gentle at first, though sorrow ran deep,
Self-loathing haunted the wounds he would keep;
Yet still in his ruin, his battered heart longed,
To love and be loved, where he never belonged.

Pushed past his breaking, undone by neglect,
By the hands that had made him, then cast him reject;
The cruelest of makers saw truth far too late,
Not spectre or wretch, but a soul formed by its fate.

Forever lost in icy silence, abandoned, alone,
He wanders through sorrow no mercy has known;
And still I feel grief for that heart torn asunder,
That unwanted thing they named with such thunder….
Monster.

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When the Night Comes

When some nightmares happen, they hit hard,
So vivid they feel real, because sometimes they are.

Alone in a world fast asleep,
A body lies convulsing upon a bed.

No one is watching.
Nobody is there to comfort or care.

Nobody notices
when the convulsing flesh becomes still,
When it lies prone and cold,
sweat-drenched, mouth agape,
Eyes rolled back into their sockets,
Its body paralysed
as something unseen begins to pull.

A new journey is about to begin for this victim,
Following a lifetime of technology,
dependence and abuse.

Something begins to leave the body,
A fragment of energy, consciousness,
something difficult to name,
Shedding itself into the aether
Where it is drawn
towards a realm of mechanical darkness.

There, human essence is absorbed and assimilated,
Joined to a hive mind of machinery and suffering,
Combined with technologies both ancient and new,
Until the individual becomes
nothing more than another component.

Another cog.
Another consciousness trapped within the engine.

Another unwilling participant
In a living, breathing hell.

All machines have a purpose,
And this one is no different.
Its purpose is simple.
To spread pain.
To perpetuate suffering.
To consume what remains of humanity,

And ultimately,

To eradicate it.

Meanwhile,
In the waking world,

The sleeper lies motionless,

Waiting for morning.

*An Infinite Black Poem.

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The Signal

The Signal (extended) (2025)

The threat is invisible, silent, and constant,
There is no escape, no running, and nowhere to hide,
The signal permeates every system, every cell,
It’s a new technological pandemic
The killer is digital and already within you.
Nobody can disconnect, and very soon,
All existence will be erased.

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