Victor's Gothic Poetry
PAGE FOUR
Middle Age
Is the glass half full,
or is it half empty?
Can this be said,
of a man, middle-aged?
Am I half alive or,
am I half dead?
Sometimes I do not know.
Sometimes I wish I did.
If life begins at forty,
then what was I doing,
for the past thirty-nine?
In limbo 'til I arrived?
What can one say,
about a life of work,
school, loves and trials?
Was it worth it? I don't know.
What can I expect
in the oncoming years?
Illness, infirmity, senility,
deafness, my hair turning white.
The last forty years and
the next forty too,
have obstacles to overcome.
Good things and bad.
Does ones life begin at birth,
reach the middle and then return.
Back to a spiritual rebirth.
Death is that rebirth.
Perhaps if we are lucky,
reincarnation is true,
and we'll all ascend,
to a higher plane.
An observation, "Life's a mystery, death is
simple"
Thomas Dunn
Thunder cracked and a torrent
of rain fell upon the graveyard.
The grass drenched with water,
the freshly filled graves, a quagmire.
The oldest of the plots,
were toward the west,
shaded by a great oak tree,
encircled within a stonewall.
A woman attired in black,
carrying a single red rose,
entered the circle and knelt,
In the mud near a grave.
A simple stone marker read,
Thomas Dunn -
Born 1789 - Died 1809,
"He loved his wife Emma"
The woman placed the rose,
upon the ground near,
the headstone and wept.
"Why were you so stubborn?"
"I've been alone all these years.
You could have been with me,
we could have been happy.
But you and your faith..."
She left the grave spiritless,
Then signaled for her car.
"Are you ok, Miss Emma?"
"Just take me home, driver."
For nearly two centuries,
she came home to an empty house.
An empty bed, an empty existence.
"Existence", you could hardly call it a life.
Nightmares
Inky blackness ensnares my every thought.
It spies on me and laughs at my expense.
I swear it knows what I will do,
and what I will think, before I do.
A dense cloud of mist obscures my eyes.
It won't let me see my own actions.
Like a blind man I step cautiously
through the world and it's ways.
A clammy hand obstructs my mouth,
so that I cannot scream, I try to no avail.
This pent up rage builds in me
like steam in a kettle.
Ice-cold shackles restrain my limbs,
so that I cannot escape or even move.
This is my own private hell,
the one that I created.
Starting when I was young,
I held myself back, more and more.
Now there is no freedom,
just my nightmares.
Undead
From their tombs the undead rise,
and wander aimless and unsure.
When one met another,
they knew not what to say.
When several joined the assemblage,
A great bond was forged.
Together, as a collective,
they knew what to do at last.
In the distance a immense light,
Could be seen for miles,
it shimmered red and orange.
It was the mouth of hell.
The undead slowly marched,
into the flames of oblivion.
Finally quenching the inferno's
voracious appetite forever.
The Nameless Goddess
The powerful, nameless Goddess,
sat upon her throne and
watched the world of man,
with a disdainful eye.
She raised her hand
and tidal waves obliterated the coast.
Mighty winds caused devastation,
and famine and plague were loosed.
Blissfully she looked down,
upon the displaced, the destitute,
the injured and the dead.
Moans erupted and pleased her ears.
Time passed and mankind survived,
and prospered through adversity.
It remained and thrived,
perhaps even more persistently.
"These puny creatures bore me,
I wish them to be gone,"
More disaster befell the earth
and yet humans survived.
She was exasperated.
"The insolence of humanity!
Why do they survive?
I must know their secret!"
She decided to go down to Earth,
and see why this was so.
But when men saw her beauty,
they fell to their knees.
She was worshiped and adored
by all who laid eyes on her.
Large temples and statues were
constructed in worship of her.
"I suppose these creatures have,
some redeeming qualities.
I will not smite them today,
tomorrow I may change my mind.
Torture
A prodigious cloud of thunderous might,
looms above me like a guillotine blade,
waiting to strike with all its power,
to cut me down in my youthful prime.
I try to run but there's no escape,
from my horrific and inevitable fate.
Billowing vapors of diseased thoughts,
try to choke my mind with their delights.
I go mad, insane with perversions.
that would make a whore cringe.
My body becomes a plaything for strangers.
I cannot block the images from my eyes.
From deep inside my psyche,
I conjure delicious dementia.
As I lie awake at night,
I plot my deeds one by one.
My murderous machinations are simple,
yet devilishly cunning and shrewd.
My hideous atrocities will have the
authorities baffled for decades.
I lie in the dark, a mere shell of a man,
someone who was once happy.
I once cared for others and their well being,
now I only plot merciless acts upon them.
The stars outside my window mock me.
the moon holds secrets that I must know,
but my home holds me prisoner,
an inmate in my own personal asylum.
Bloody Moon
Do you know that blood seen
in the moonlight appears black?
What a delicious irony,
what was red is now black.
Black as my heart,
black as my soul.
Black Cat (for Samantha)
The black cat moves,
on stealthy paws.
Her eyes wide.
Her ears attune.
When something moves,
she lies in wait.
Her body rigid.
Her muscles tense.
Then the energy erupts,
pouncing on her prey.
Her fangs sharp.
Her claws released.
The black cat rips into its throat,
devouring the bloody nourishment.
Her stomach full.
Her appetite sated.
She sleeps well tonight,
dreaming of conquests yet to be.
Her eyes closed.
Her dreams free.
Pain
Pain can be such a rapturous delight,
it causes the nerve endings to tingle,
and throb with reckless abandon.
Ingeniously simple and so fulfilling.
I sometimes hold my hand above a flame.
to feel the glorious sensation.
Blissful agony is but a mere dream,
an object to desire from afar,
which can indeed be made real.
Execution
As I am strapped down,
I see the victims' families.
Vengeance realized,
glaring at my immobile body.
The attendants check the bindings.
Content with their handiwork,
they quietly exit the chamber.
The door is secured. I lie alone.
In the silence I hear my own heart beat.
It echoes from the walls and in my ears.
The smell of death slips into the room.
At first, out of desperation,
I try stupidly to hold my breath.
Of course I know it will not help,
for the flesh can absorb the poison
just as well as breathing it.
I gasp my first breath of the noxious air,
it burns my throat as I try to inhale.
I gag while foaming at the mouth.
I fight against my bindings,
and thrash about wildly.
"I shall kill you all!" I scream and choke.
Gently I fall into the void.
Free of my restraints, but not alone.
I see the victims of my atrocities.
The stand before me, judging and
convicting me, over and over again.
I am executed once more, and again... and again...
Poetry
I think that I caught poetry,
a virulent disease.
It happened to me late one night,
when my brain it did seize.
I've tried to battle it with drugs,
and homemade remedies.
My doctor says it's in my bones,
and all extremities.
I write and write and cannot stop,
the words keep pouring out.
I don't know if it's good or bad,
to smile or to just pout.
I think that it's incurable.
This sickness I should rue.
Though now I think it's changed again,
I've gone and caught Haiku!
Red Rose (Haiku)
The red rose with petals fragrant,
has thorns,
as sharp as fangs.
Nature (Haiku)
Nature works in wit and rhyme,
with mother Earth and father time.
Rain (Haiku)
Raindrops fall from
the pendulous clouds,
like tears from a child.
The Wind
The wind did speak to me,
telling me where it had been.
The voice was strong,
and at the same time soothing.
It spoke of lands far away,
and people it had touched.
It told me of the hurricanes,
that it had helped create.
It then showed me the ripples,
on the lake near where I live.
It sang to me as it did pass,
through bushes and past trees.
But then it sighed a final breath,
and turned into a breeze.
It then fell silent and quite still.
It died. It's work fulfilled.
Witch Child
A witch child was born within.
the town of Olde Kharoo.
The parents did not know this fact,
had not a single clue.
When her powers surfaced
as their nature would imply,
the parents knew what should be done,
they told the girl to lie.
"Never show what you can do,
or you'll be sent away,
to jail then tried and hung or burned,
your fate would be that way!"
The child agreed to never speak,
of casting and spell,
but then one day a little boy,
fell down the local well.
"I can help, please let me do"
"You can't my child. It's death!"
"I have to save the drowning boy,
whose near his final breath."
Before the town, the little witch,
did charm and cast her spell,
the poor drenched frightened child,
rose straight up from the well.
The town did not know what to do.
They pondered up and down.
A witch could be quite helpful,
and an asset to their town.
And when she grew, she bore a child,
not knowing what she'd be.
It takes some time to tell if she,
had been blessed magically.
And if her child would be a witch,
both child and mom would do,
whatever was their heart's content,
in the town of Olde Kharoo.
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