Evil Eyes

After the sunsets warning,
The dark creeps up,
Nothing is radiant in the world,
Naught but the two lights I see,
Corpselights in the black,
Malevolence in twin lustre,
Eyes flittering a grim emerald,
I lock vision with them,

Silence,
Just silence,

The hairs upon my nape stand in awe,
I know not to which fiend they belong,
But I feel the heat of their ire,
Such hate in their illumination,
They pounce from brush to brush,
Denoting a predators process,
The night shifts just that bit colder,
I am fixed in their gaze,

Silence,
Just silence,

Then rapid claws upon broken twigs,
No more sound would be heard,
No more sunsets to be seen.

Dreams

I descend in to my sarcophagus,
To rejuvenate this faded corpus,
To replace grey with luminosity,
My self-imposed hypnosis,
Death with benefits,
My nightly reprieve,

Hither to my closed eyes comes a slideshow,
Disjointed images with no rhyme nor reason,
Castles riding upon clouds and birds flying backwards,
Conversations that never occurred and lessons never taught,
Stars playing chess with bolts of silk,
Vagaries and illusions in tropical colours,

My sense becomes a nebula,
Colourful and vibrant in the extreme but vaporous,
This nightly madness has done its due,
I awaken scarred and grinning,
Feeling ever more liberated but less stable,
A clown ready for the banal day,

Until my next death,
Next rest.

Hellscape

When asked to describe my dreams,
To understand my nightly process,
I flip a coin,
To judge which dreamland I last inhabited,
The misty nirvana of colour and vividity,
Or the dread hellscape,

The latter often wins,
Indeed it is the more trod upon,
A grey and harsh wasteland,
With gargantuan twisted spires of charcoal,
Echoes of an inferno,
A haven of abominations,

A dappled waste by any other measure,
The wind is a sad accordion,
Piercing cries always from great distance,
Aural mirages,
A perennial eclipse,
The crying stars are merely wisps,

Here I find my monsters,
Here I breed their evil,
Unfathomable muses that they are,
My quill is my baton to subdue them,
Their horror becomes my ink,
To carve my art into parchment,

Sometimes I bring the things back…

When I awake,
I gaze glossy-eyed out of my window,
As I tell my querier,
And I see a similar hellscape,
Replete with misery,
But perhaps more.

Torpor

I slept,

I lost my teeth last night,
They were taken by little hands,
Shadowy hands,
Teeming from every nook and cranny,
Of this shaded cell,
A host of impish incubi,

I stirred,

I can’t fight back,
Sleep paralysis,
The image of the hag holds me down,
My eyes simply spectate,
This sinister comedy,
The hands mock my seeming,

I woke,

I need my teeth,
For without them,
How am I to entertain the guests?
The lords and ladies,
The drunkards and jezebels,
I’ll be a waking pariah,

I cried.

Storm Of Sleep

Sleep has become a storm recently,
A tumultuous time,
Hurricanes of colour,
Bizarre images abound,
Perhaps call it a brainstorm,

Thunderbolts of sudden pictures,
Blinding shots of emotion,
Parodies of realities,
Both imagined and real,
I stir at every crack,

Colours take on shapes,
That I don’t really understand,
Dreams of lovers and killers,
Of monsters and smiles,
Conversations with people who don’t exist,

I begin to feel myself shiver,
The winds grow ever stronger,
I hope to survive the night,
I hope to awaken anew,
After the storm.

Book of Nightmares

As I stare blankly at the page,
Me and my mind make a pact,
A pact with this book of nightmares,
This monster I put my pen to,
A sanctum for every horror that crosses my minds eye,
Or perhaps an asylum?

This is my unholy gift to you,
A window into my mind,
Full of horrors and abominations as it is,
I must continue to write regardless,
I must keep creating these literary monsters,
The book demands it.

I begin to write,
And the nightmares come out to play,
Letters and words creep from recesses,
Punctuation slivers hither-and-thither,
Sentences of madness begin to form,
I’ve released a monster.

Or am I creating it?