Victor's Gothic Poetry
PAGE TWO
Hearts are Blood Red
Hearts are blood red,
but my heart is blue,
For now I'm alone,
and it bleeds for you!
Cupid does sting,
with arrows and bow,
You were my lover,
and now I'm your foe.
You turn away,
when I come near,
What can it be,
T'is I that you fear?
I died for you,
what more can I say.
I'm in my grave,
and you stay away!
I returned, one night,
your lesson learned well,
For you are still mine,
while we burn in hell!
Teachers
Life presents us with many teachers: a mother, a lover, a rival... We became
both fool and servant to each one. Correct responses, you were rewarded.
Mistakes brought punishment just as quickly. It is hopeful that we learn from
our experiences... from our mistakes. But it is not always so, is it. They say
that history is doomed to repeat itself; you don’t know how true that really
is.
I ask you then, at what
point does ones teacher become ones equal? Or, to put it more matter-of-factly,
when does one surpass ones master?
“The circle is now complete... Once I was but the learner... Now I am
the master... A master of Evil!”
Strangely we are drawn back to our teacher at some point. Life’s ebb
and flow makes that inevitable. Shall we present teacher with a nice shiny apple
for her duties and receive a thankful pat on the head in return. Or... shall
teacher be rewarded with a more devious fortune: a flashing blade to cut off her
head, ringing the school bell and shouting “Teacher is Dead!”
What of my student, my protégé, my son? Will I be remembered as a
learned scholar and a wellspring of knowledge or will I be reviled and scorned,
treated to the same end, as my teacher will face?
History is doomed? Perhaps.
My Home
I hear the sounds
Outside my home.
T'is quite, soft,
but I do hear them.
The sound increases.
A scratching,
no, a nibbling,
as if tiny things were eating.
I lie silently, still and cold,
my body, a mere shell of
what it once was
in life.
But I am conscious,
I am aware,
my mind is alert
though I cannot move.
The sounds grow louder,
I hear them breaching
my home's wooden walls!
They arrive without invitation.
I feel them wriggling,
chewing, biting,
I know they are all over me.
I cannot scream!
Is this what hell is?
Lying in what was
to be eternal rest!
No - I am a banquet, a meal.
My mind is reeling,
I try to cry but the tears,
they don't come.
I am being devoured!
Help me! Free me!
I want forgiveness now!
Please! I know my sins!
Silence... but for the chewing
Dark Soul
I am the dark spirit
of the forest.
I prowl the swamps
and marshes of your soul.
I am the things
you hide, the feelings
you suppress, the
wants and desires you crave.
I will not be denied
much longer, for
I will surface when
you least expect.
My hungers are primal,
my lusts are bloody.
You cannot keep me
chained forever.
One night I will arise,
slowly at first
As a thought or whim.
But I will come.
When I do, you will not
keep me at bay.
I will conquer you
and your "free will".
When loosed upon
the unsuspecting world,
my crimes will be
beyond sanity, beyond reason.
For I am the dark spirit
of the forest.
I prowl the swamps
and marshes of your soul.
Sanity
I cannot fathom the
need for sanity.
It really is a
useless thing.
The sane ones
are those who
bide their time and
slowly go mad anyway.
Eventually you will
be one of us.
Why fight what
is inevitable?
Why curse those of
us who went willingly?
Those of us who
are quite deranged.
You know we will win
in the end.
It's only a matter
of time.
Taedium Vitae
(Weariness of Life)
Centuries have passed,
my life continues,
never aging, forever unchanged.
I have witnessed
empires rise and fall.
History repeating itself.
There have been
many lovers, many conquests.
Too many to ever list.
Yet, despite it all,
I have not seen a sunrise,
in an eternity.
My existence
grows stagnant.
I tire of this world.
Those around me
age and die while
I remain precisely the same.
It is time to
make a decision,
for there to be closure.
All through the night,
I watch the boats
traversing the sea.
Then in the distance,
I see a hint of light,
orange-yellow in hue.
Colors I have not seen,
since long, long ago.
I welcome them.
As the rays of sunlight,
touch my immortal skin,
I tolerate the pain.
I am engulfed by the
conflagration.
I finally achieve peace.
All that remains of me,
is a pile of ashes,
and the wind blows them away.
The Songs of the Dead
The songs in my head, are the songs of the dead.
They fill up my mind, and help me unwind.
I see them at night, they are such a fright,
in stately attire, `round a pit filled with fire.
They sing and they dance, they howl and they prance.
The lyrics they sing, are of their new king.
Dark tales they are told, of this King fierce and bold.
He sits on a throne, constructed of bone.
His regal attire, and a ring of sapphire,
are the signs of his rank, and how far he sank.
For he was once like me, a man strong and free,
but his sins were so great, that they sealed his fate.
When he died and he fell, he was greeted in hell.
The dead there did sing, and made him their king.
"What honor is this?" he asked with a hiss.
"Oh, Master, you jest!", and they await his behest.
"I am not the King, of whom you do sing.
This throne and attire, I do not desire.
Why am I so blessed, to now be your guest?"
"Please let us explain, why here you do reign.
On your throne here you sit, above the great pit.
To witness the plight, of those banished from light,
You are destined to stay and not look away.
Your hell this will be, for eternity.
The songs in my head, are the songs of the dead.
They are singing with glee, for a throne awaits me.
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