Monstrous Tale

A monster among strained souls
Far beyond, the moon’s horizon,
Yet, illuminated is the sinister
Orchestrated by this beast,
Stretching it’s grasp over the land,
Word of this growling shadow
Quickly pervades the glooming ruins,
Stricken, with fear amongst dying light,
Huddled together in muffled breaths
As slow, thunderous steps
Crack the floor above the frightened,
Pulsing through the solemn echoes
Of shaking whimpers, the monster,
Claims its victims, shredding existence
In the embers of a smoldering night,
Far into the bleak stripped town, lies
What all dread, a crushing loss
Haunting the endings hanging by string,
While scraps of a pendulum, decays
Slowly in it’s pit, beckoning for light
To flush out the horror residing
In the deep nightshade of my mind, Taking a sip, from the brimming cup,
Aiding me in my transmogrification
Into what has terrorized, this empty village,
Into what has bled fear, in cold eyes
Resting below my growling thunder.

©DorianPoe 2015

Crippling Tree

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Silence, is awakened by her gusting approach,
Towing with her, another key
From a cold bearing decline,
Temperately landing, amongst the baron branches
That struggles to keep the dangling tales,
When she shrills, a story floods the roots
Unlocked, by the tightly fastened noose
In the shadow of a key,
Weighing down a stunted climb
By hollow horrors in a fabled squawk,
Each bellow of a splattered sentence
Further opens the gaping sinkhole,
She finds distance, to only bestow
An overshadowed key, etched into it
Lies doom, a haunting cloud that rumbles
In the throat of the high winged soar,
A storm that drums the sapless
Held on tightly in constraints
Of the weaved bubble from dirty talons
Fabricating life, and glorifying darkness, Now the tree resides as a sumo
With dear in it’s roots,
Being hugged, by consumption,
Dressed, in an overcrowding, blind deceit,
A warning, never to cross the Rubicon.

©DorianPoe 2015

War in Mind

I was entangled in a web, watching
My mind, get torn apart,
Ravaged, by ever famished dwellers
That crawl out from
The stalk of my spine,
Taking advantage, of my weakened state,
All happening, out the cusp of reach, Nothing to do, but succumb to the war
For there is no more retreating,
As my huddled trenches
Are reduced to fire pools that cradles
The slumber of innocence,
My sole whirlpool decline to the gates
As the soldier, in this war against sanity,
But whimpered attempts
Desserts me at the foothill, of rage,
Rage against the entanglement,
Working, to set myself free
In ceaseless battle against
A dooming sentence.

©DorianPoe 2015