Ghostly shadows dance,
Pumpkins grin with wicked glee,
Autumn night whispers.
N.P.: “Monsters” – The Cruxshadows
Ghostly shadows dance,
Pumpkins grin with wicked glee,
Autumn night whispers.
N.P.: “Monsters” – The Cruxshadows
In the moon’s cold and silvery glow,
A figure stirs in shadows below.
With eyes like coals, it prowls the night,
A specter born of endless fright.
Cloaked in darkness, it silently creeps,
Through misty woods where the night wind weeps,
Its fangs gleam sharp, a predator’s grin,
As it hunts for the life that sustains its sin.
Behind closed curtains, hearts quicken with dread,
For the vampire’s thirst is far from fed.
It whispers softly through creaking doors,
A chilling promise of blood and gore.
The village shivers beneath starlit skies,
Where once calm dreams now harbor cries.
A shadowy wraith with a timeless stare,
The vampire’s touch a silent snare.
In gothic halls where candles flicker,
Its presence lingers, the air grows thicker.
With every heartbeat, terror spreads,
In its wake, only cold and lifeless beds.
Beware the moon when it rides high,
Casting its gaze on the midnight sky.
For in its glow, the vampire roams,
To claim the night as its eternal home.
N.P.: “Vampires” – Night Club
Cobwebs glisten bright,
Black cats prowl with silent steps-
Mystery unfolds.
N.P.: “Human Fly” – Leæther Strip
In the heart of the night, where silence reigns,
A phantom shadow breaks its chains.
The wind whispers secrets, cold and bleak,
As moonlight shivers upon the creek.
An ancient tree, with roots like veins,
Holds tales of sorrow and ghostly pains.
A lantern flickers on the winding path,
Casting ghostly figures in its wrath.
A chilling cry splits the still, dense air,
From lips unseen, a ghostly prayer.
A figure cloaked in midnight’s shroud,
Moves silently beneath the cloud.
Eyes of darkness, void and deep,
Guard the secrets shadows keep.
N.P.: “The Gypsy Theme” – Slash
And now, a haiku:
Some days life just sucks.
But then I think about you.
And that makes it worse.
N.P.: “‘I Know’ [MIXED]” – Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross, Boys Noize
In the twilight moments of our spinning sphere,
Where the cosmic clock ticks, end drawing near.
The sun, a fiery orb, blinks its final goodbye,
As the stars whisper secrets to the midnight sky.
A world once teeming, now silent and cold,
A tale of destruction, in hushed voices told.
The cities lie empty, a ghostly parade,
Monuments to tolerance, in decay displayed.
The machines of progress, rusted and still
Abandoned by their makers, and their loss of will.
The nation’s canvas, once vibrant and bold,
Now a barren wasteland, a story told.
Yet in this desolation, a beauty surreal,
As if time has stopped, in a final ordeal.
An eerie tranquility blankets the land,
A testament to a cycle we couldn’t withstand.
The oceans are mirrors, reflecting the void,
Where life once flourished, now asteroid.
The mountains stand proud, their majesty remains,
Silent sentinels over desolate plains.
A haunting symphony of the end plays,
In the hollow echoes of forgotten days.
Yet in this silence, a truth unfurls,
The end is no gateway to other worlds.
The Poet once said, in his wisdom profound,
“The aim of life is death, the roundabout bound.”
So too, the world, in its final dance,
Embraces the end, not by chance.
So here lies the world, in its final repose,
In the grand opera of existence, the final doze.
So pray, dear traveler, as you wander the stars,
Every end is a beginning, no matter the scars.
N.P.: “Funeral March” – 2WEI
And now for some verse…
Petrichor
And so much for all that. Today is for serious book work…not for windy walks in the rain. The time has come to kick ass! In fact, it’s long overdue. I am behind schedule, and that means that there are asses in desperate need of kicking walking around unkicked. So I’m gonna get back to it.
I’ll leave you with this note from Fitzgerald:
“For what it’s worth: it’s never too late, or in my case, too early, to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you have never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find you are not, I hope you have the courage to start all over again.” ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald
Indeed.
N.P.: “I Don’t Care About Nothing Anymore” – Beasts of Bourbon
Happy New Year, dear reader!
I don’t typically make the changing of the calendar year a big deal, but typing “2023” just now felt great. See, 2023 means that next year is 2024, and 2024 is The Good Year. Which makes 2023 The Absurdly Busy Year, but I am here for it.
Fun Fact: I have an unusual startle reflex and I don’t jump at all at nearby gunshots or explosions. Some of my friends know this, but not all of them. Certainly not the one who gave me the bag of Ambien™ to help me “sleep through the fireworks at midnight.” She gave me careful instructions about when and how many to take, and of course I thanked her profusely, shut the door, and took everything in the bag. I don’t have a solid recollection of much, but I know I stayed up quite some time making bizarre art. And like Christmas morning, except better, the morning after an Ambien™ binge is always full of surprises. For instance, this “poem” I have no memory of writing:
Happy New Year, my friend
I say to my friend.
The dash between us is like the space
between strangers on a train;
it’s not what we know about each other that matters,
but what we don’t. The dash is how it feels
to live in two states at once, the territory of the hyphen,
here but not quite, home but not really.
The dash is how it feels to be in exile,
the space between where I am and where I want to be,
or so I tell myself.
But the truth is I’m happy here.
I’m just not used to being happy.
What the fuck does that even mean? The dash? What dash? There’s no dash here. God knows what I was thinking. Doesn’t even sound like my style at all. Maybe I’ll get back in to writing verse (sober verse) this year. My sober stuff isn’t that great, but it’s quite better than this dash nonsense. Never mind. Happy New Year. Let’s get weird.
N.P.: “Reduced Voltage” – Blancmange