Tuesday, 30 October 2018

Thursday, 11 October 2018

Crowns - Poem

Furthest from the din
of human voices
Lies the forgotten valley
of the choiceless

Past it, and beyond to
walls of mist
A silent, ancient city
does exist

Time warren memories of
bygone races
Are carved across the
city's faces

Audacious memorials built
so long ago
In a place those still living
never know

Empty streets and overgrown
libraries
Saplings reaching from lush
cemeteries

Denizens eternally watching
vegetal, muted
Till their will comes to be
uprooted

And on this day we men
will know fear
Just as trees grow tall
each past year

Hear: those once rulers
still grow
Planted in their garden
On row by row

They grow stronger with
every day
And it's only to the earth
that they pray

Can gods spring out of
earthen womb?
Or are they seeds that
come to bloom?

Like flowers growing on
your tomb
To end mankind's smog
and gloom.

Thriving flowered forms
come to teem
Through forgotten tunnels,
like a stream

They come to liberate with
no mirth.
The last hope for our still
dying earth.

To soak their roots in our
Life's blood
To cleanse the earth, in a
Crimson flood.

Their looming advent soon
close at hand
To return to the earth
it's crown land

Their ancestral home will
then recall
In the time proceeding
our downfall

Before our world overgrows
any trace
Of our best forgotten, lost
human race

Another great migration will
Come to pass
Returning to their familiar
land en masse

To dig their mammoth roots
to home soil
To return their minds from the
violent toil

Surrendering wholly to Terra's
endemic growth
To swear again to nature's one
solemn oath

"Tread light through mountains
and trees
Like swaying branches in the
fall breeze

For those twisted roots along a
walking Path
May soon give way to eldritch,
boreal wrath"

With these words the forest race
finds new rest
Till a new species comes to bring
Earth's detest

Skullhoarder Photo and Poem



In the light of her
black candles
Caressing bodies
in shambles

Discarding bones and
human meat
While burning incense
smells so sweet

A naked skull is
her trophy
And she holds it
so closely

Staining blood against
her bare skin
Relishing in her
mortal sin

Until it joins her
gray parade
Of those hallowed by
her Switchblade

A shrine of skulls hid
in her room
Marks this plain suburb
as a tomb

A pyramid of
those waylaid
Whether by blade
or nightshade

Full of spirits that
know no rest
So in her mind they
manifest

In her dreams, they call
out to her
“Let us feel,” Says the
Whisperer

So her form they
do possess
To feed desires they
can’t repress

Carnal whims of Eros
and Thanatos
Creeping in pre-dawn’s
long shadows

To feel a fleeting
human touch
To find another
skull to clutch

To take into her
dreary home
To practice black arts
with no tome

Tuesday, 9 October 2018

The Temple Photo and Poem


The forest is her only
temple
Where she laid with
the devil

And came back every
other night
Hoping to again hold
his sight

But he never came to
see her
Tho winds carry his
whisper
 
So she carries out his
secret will
And under moonlight blood
does spill