Graveyard

That tenuous line between cognizance and sleep,
It’s a dangerous time for me,
When the sun no longer has my back,
And no valiant comrade can aid me,
The ghouls in my head stir,
Buried there by my own hand,

Silence is the loudest sound,
When the skeletons start to rise,
Dead hopes,
Spectral memories,
Wailing for my attention,
My skull becomes an echo chamber of a cemetery,

It becomes a deafening clarion call,
A deathknell for my peace,
A choir of revenants begin their concert,
Every historical ill laid bare at bellowing audacity,
Clawing at this mausoleum of my head,
Prelude to the nightmares to come.

Wicked Eyes

I am dragged from my sleeping nirvana,
To a bedroom suddenly unfamiliar,
An unseen force holds me in place,
Diabolic manacles upon each limb,
The bed becomes a gaol,
The infinite weight of sleep paralysis,
I feel ominous eyes upon me,

Two corpselights in the corner,
Limpid apertures flaunting hells own fires,
Fixated upon me like an eagle spying prey,
There’s a malice behind them,
A demonic spite,
Ice-cold dread burning as the eyes approach,
Twin lasers cutting into my very bones,

As the eyes draw close,
Enough to feel the abominable heat,
Swelter emanating from them as if breathing,
They simply stare in ghoulish hate,
Holding inches away with their malicious effusion,
Feasting upon my soul in its throes of terror,
Until the morning comes with banishing sun.

Flutes At Night

From my silken casket,
I am dragged to cognizance,
By painful aural hooks,
The night pierced by an unseen cacophony,
An orchestral banshee wail on the lawn,
Illuminated by a crescent in emerald hues,
Moonlight through a lens of wisps,

From my dusty window I spy a dread throng,
An assembly of ghouls,
Skeletons of the closet,
Bony fingers clasped on to instruments of every kind,
Shrieking stagnant air into flutes from lungs long rotten,
Guided by a softly groaning conductor,
Hollow cavities reading from songsheets comprised of past mistakes,

Their mournful tune sings dead memories into my mind,
And I can’t help but well up,
Their revenant of a chrous is anathema to my balance,
Brass and woodwind accuse in shrill tones,
Violins pinching at my arms with raucous timbre,
A melody that shan’t allow me to rest guiltless again,
And the flutes parade ever on.

Phantom Limb

A car savaged me,
Its radiator like sharks teeth,
It took my leg unapologetically,
Churned it right up,
Red mist and bone fragments,
Gnashing going gone,

Late at night,
When the memory of that car returns,
Like a hunter in the periphery,
Laying in my abode,
The pangs return,
With no method to sate them,

My leg is now a ghost,
A screaming phantom,
Naught but a flaccid stump,
With but a memory of flesh,
It shrieks into the night,
With syllables of itching agony,

My limb is a disaster zone,
Laid to waste by a steel tornado,
A constant reminder of that beast,
A grave site,
With an epitaph,
Etched in constant painful emptiness.

Spectre Of Not Enough

I’m a ghost,
But not of an afterlife,
I’m not dead,
Just not entirely here,
A hollow spirit,
I gave myself out too much,
Charity for too many hearts,
There was no blood left for me,

Each call for help,
Became a funeral invitation for me,
Burying more of myself,
I lost my form,
I wasn’t enough,
No more flesh,
Wasn’t enough to give,
It hollowed me out,

So now I float about an old house,
I wail in the twilight,
Gasping stridor in the black,
But I’m not here to startle,
Just to wallow in my own eulogy,
Ectoplasmic gibberish,
Among guttering candles,
And black cats,

Not enough,
Not,
Enough.

Geist

I died many moons ago,
A forgotten yesteryear,
A summer of discord,
Stinking heat of golds and silvers,
All burns and bugs,

I amble these haunted houses,
And cemetery streets,
Shadowed by a convoy of corpseflies,
Just a walking dead,
A dusky cadaver,

Invisible to most,
Save for those of a similar spiritual leaning,
Bumping into the unwary,
Shrieking banshee tunes,
A miserable poltergeist,

I’m a wraith,
What killed me?
It’s hard to say,
Memories can be eerie mirages,
But I believe it resemebled Eros.