Death's Garden (A Short Story)The midday sun hung like a single flaming eye in the burning azure sky. My rough-spun robes of coarse hessian trailed lazily in the dusty sands. I had been walking for hours, and even the sap in my gnarled walking staff seemed to boil in this inhospitable terrain. I paused and sat carefully upon an ancient weather-whipped rock. Every bone in my worn-out body ached and throbbed. I reached for a battered old flask, uncorked the stopper and tipped the contents down my parched throat - nothing. It was empty. Sighing, I slowly stood upward again; sinews and joints groaning and creaking noisy protestations. Lately I was beginning to feel the weight of my years pushing down heavily upon my spin like a mounting load of bricks. Every time I made this journey, I though it would be my last. Perhaps today I was right.
I scanned the horizon. The cottage should be here. Despair, fear and loneliness curdled in my stomach. I was lost. I gazed to the South, as the heat wavered and flickered, swimming q
The Seraphim of Cobwebbed HallsSilently I heard her whispering,
pallid ivory lips soft lisping,
Paper drifting slowly shifting,
from the bedroom's mildewed walls.
In these halls stirs vaguest chanting,
whippoorwills their cries decanting;
psycopomps in midnight sighing,
just outside these mildewed walls.
Huddled forms sprawl stealthily creeping,
countless spiders surging sweeping,
toward the bed where she lies sleeping,
the maiden of these mildewed walls.
Trapped within that pall's mass trembling,
writhes the one I stayed here tending,
all those bleak nights never-ending,
within these wretched mildewed walls.
Blasphemous birds fall shrieking mocking,
through the window thickly flocking,
to snatch the soul of that thing rotting,
my sweet seraphim of cobwebbed halls.
Four-and-Twenty CultistsSing along everyone - this one's rather jolly! (the rhyming scheme at least).
I saw angels dance with devils
under winter's crystal sky.
Old men passed between them,
crying "Dead men never die!"
Then the oceans fell before us,
as the dead began to sing.
Heavens parted wider;
winds prickled at our skin.
Now Satan awakes slowly,
like shadows on the sands.
Together we beg forgiveness,
as he lacerates our hands.
The landscape lies broken,
as stones roll through the hills.
Stars are growing brighter,
fed by blood of untold kills.
Death bends his toxic breath,
exuding nameless streams.
and crimson coloured dreams.
RevelationsI saw Him rise and He does exist,
came and saved a sinning atheist.
Showed me light when I saw none,
paved the way for the path I'm on.
Now I know what's required of me,
the Lord has come and set me free.
With pen in hand I write this line,
and watch the stars as they realign,
Others laugh and call me names,
they'll soon perish in His flames!
None of them would take a look,
as I opened up the holy Book!
I pray and plead to join the throng,
worshipers that know Your song!
Come take me to the distant place,
insane in the arms of mad embrace!
Oh Great Lord Cthulhu!
CorruptionSoft with crows you sumptuous walk,
stroll dark roads entombed in night.
Stolen souls somnolent ceaseless talk,
black tales wove with cunning sight.
Words crack fractured tears of frost,
bare starved branches silent sway.
Stark leaves by cruel winds tossed,
beneath the heavens clouded grey.
Blood lies crimsoned on the slate,
dead men stirred sup second life.
Servants sweep from Satan's gate,
summoned to your slaking knife.
So the four ride upon your breath
PESTILENCE WAR FAMINE DEATH
Golden CandlesWhen the stirring of the tides echo lonely with the flow,
and winter rears his icy head and threatens coming snow,
when the very last of flowers, sadly crumple and decay,
when nights become much darker and longer than the day,
when the stars shine subtly brighter than anything I've seen,
then we'll come to realise - we were living in a dream.
How one Dead Views the LivingMy life had always been painted in sombre greys. In death, how it blossoms!
When the rains come, the watery drops fall like tears of ink: echoing and dancing across sparkling sapphire puddles. The sun, a golden mystic orb, shedding its beauty on all it touches.
I see rustic weather-beaten cragged faces of the old, set with eyes of faded blue. I behold bright smiles and blushes upon the fat cheeks of the young. My ears prickle with the twirling thousand-noted song of birds. The beauty of all these things I never observed in life, now bursts upon my ripened senses - in death.
In a trance I view this new-found paradise. Life, I have come to realise, is most beautiful to the spectator. The spectator has no need for understanding or judgement.
I look upon a derelict dilapidated street, filthy with squalor. I cast my eyes over the crumbling paintwork of rotting window frames, housing broken panes. Here and there sickly weeds break through mouldering masonry.
Oh what a picture, what a spectac
Encroaching TerrorHuckle-hunting crack-backed worms
'neath jeering, leering tangled forms.
Branches breaking, bending, sending
shivers down my mangled spine.
Fine, everything's just fine.
Backward glancing, I see dancing
shadows, shadows that aren't mine.
Time, time ever racing, chasing,
pacing, my footsteps ever hastening;
tasting the seconds as they fade away.
Decay comes quickly, sickly;
stenches, wrenches my groaning gut.
Moaning, roaming through the leaves,
weaves the yearning, burning thing of night.
Sight, I am robbed of sight.
Blinding, something hidden binding,
twining, snaking round my aching useless eyes.
Sighs, the sighs of something very close;
those whispered, blistered wrecks of breath.
Death, the final fleck, silently shivers,
my withered slivered, writhing neck.