Posts Tagged ‘paranormal’

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.

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.

Man has forgotten what resides in the darkness,
The creatures and anomalies of the night,
Why our ancestors truly brought about light,
Why they huddled as shadows raved around them,
And shuddered at each dire shriek,

Young ones still shiver at night,
They say children are the most intuitive of souls,
Receptive to things adults no longer see,
Things in the closet and under the bed,
The stink of the supernatural,

In truth those things never left,
They still hunger for gore and skin,
Fangs and talons and maws agape,
Heed your progeny,
We would do well to remember the fear.

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.

We writers are like ghosts,
Shrieking into the dark,
Under stars seen by few,
Witching hours,
Shadow people,
Revenants with quills,

Our ethereal words,
You read as we rot,
Rarely heeded until we’re dead and gone,
By our ectoplasmic hands,
The pen becomes animate,
A literary poltergeist,

In this modern world,
Wordsmiths are as wraiths,
Residing in haunted houses,
Solitary and forlorn,
Scratching at musky tomes,
Knowledge for future generations,

Our future readers,
They’re like mediums,
Conjuring up our phantasms,
Apparitions in the syllables,
Hearing our voices on the pages,
Even from the hereafter,

All writers are ghosts.