Out From the Drift

The events, that have led you into the drift, remain vague,

Stunned at the absence that crowds you, as a flutter

From the stinging bitterness of the swarming tundra

Causes a twinge, down the seam, of the fragile fabric,

You struggle, with the blurred recollection, violently dragged

Into the listless stray, and abandoned, as you proceed

In solitude, leaving you open to the bleak, still silence

Of a constant stream, afloat, here in this winter desert,

Straining to clarify what’s embedded within the pouring mist,

You slowly crouch, below the constant stream

And notice a crow, perched above, stretching its beak apart,

Expecting it to echo a screech, but this hush stays intact,

Hidden, in the thick darkness hovering atop the contrast

Is the hunter, and you, their paranoid, panicking prey,

Softly, does this stealthy pursuer glide through the desolation

Never losing sight of you, while you wonder inside your rattle,

Trying to discover the path, beneath the iron curtain,

You seek blindly, unaware of the sinking ground

Below the weary traipse, of a lost, rusted anchor,

Amused by your fatigue, the stalker readies the attack,

Tightening the spread, quietly, with precise patience,

Oblivious and still, you follow your own exhalation

To prove to yourself, of your own, beating existence,

It’s time, to challenge the draught, but where is the well,

And now, here I stand, above my fading martyr,

You’ve always lived in the drift, escaping my persistence

For far too long, until this night, when you gazed upon silent death,

Only I can hear its shrill voice, calling to me, my hound,

It’s a pity how memory can fade, and vanish from the freeze,

Finally now, the drift is completely vacant and abandoned,

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On the Battlefield of Life and Death

Silence, gripping her throat, as her eyes gasp
For air in the fatal heel clicks of his scythe,
Appearing from out the unknown reaches
Of abandoned lives, comes the cold shadow
To rape her of color, drag it while it scrapes
The hardened path to the underbelly of Sanity,
The demons playground, populated by the lost
And scorched by all those who continue to fall
Into the grasp of it’s engulfing sand, buried
On impact, as she feutily battles
With the dragging noose of that fable,
Shedding doubt, while the darkened fog
Swarms her mind’s sonnet, distracting
Her unsteady clutch around the fading light,
For all she desires before the inevitable plunge
Is one last glimpse, of those she’ll miss,
As the battleaxe slips from her grip, darkness
Comes toward her, places it’s cool hand upon
Her, and lulls her into it’s keep, tearing away
From her, all that she has nurtured
In her own arms, all that she frays for,
All the years of cuts and bruises on her heart
From this raging war that she bravely fought
To stay above the hollow echo, only to fall,
For death will always be the victor here
Despite our best efforts and strength,
She carries with her, the marks of victory
Throughout her war, that aged her well,
She’s now ready to let go.

Birth of the Grim

Stricken by the monster, lurking in the open,
Feeding, off the blood left on the plank
From numerous lashes, when it strikes,
For it swings on the strings of your fear,
Everywhere you’d be, you’d hear it’s breath
Clouding your pulse, filling your shallow pool
In which you stammer, not really wanting
To stay above the surface, content in the gutter
Of your room, down the hall, in a labyrinth,
Right where this beast needs you,
With safety vanishing deep into void
The monster broadens it’s shoulders and stretches
It’s reach to pick you from the bunch
When your scream is ripe, licks it’s lips,
Sniffing the polluted dirt for the next troubled seed,
An insatiable hunger, a curse upon the monster
As well as a curse upon the petrified living,
Long before this monster trolled rage filled
And a shadow under the wings of fear,
He was consumed in the solace of his love,
Embracing the moments they shared together
Until, the erosion brought her to the doorstep
Where she will stand before the daunting judge,
Knowing, her fate even before the disease
Would strike, it’s final blow, with her in his arms,
Right outside their own living fairytale, 
In the cold blanket, of the saddened sky,
Placing his palm upon the earth, the damned
Hearing his plea to spare her, and take him,
A deal, the devil could not resist,
Using him as a tool of fear and death,
His Grim Reaper.

©DorianPoe2016

Peace at Last

Silence screaming out, piercing the veil
Draped over stone eyes, gazing
Through a set of trembling ones,
Steel slowly slithering out, stained
Dripping crimson petals onto white tile,
The deed is done, the curse lifted,
Crashing noises of the blade shattering
Against the puddled floor,
He perches over the frozen stare,
Places his now empty, but always warm
Hand, over that distant look,
“No more will you suffer in loneliness.”
Shuts the glaze,
Hoods his identity,
And vanishes into the depths.

©DorianPoe 2015

Toll for the Ferryman

I’m banished to the unspoken,
Where fevered nights last beyond
It’s toll, paid by a dark smile,
Dragging the chains belonging to those
Fused to the brittle walls
That sharpen their daggers,
Only to dig out their own hearts,
I’m at the dock of a screaming river
Where lost bleeds onto it, carrying it
On it’s paddled tide,
From out the fog of despair
Comes the stalking boat,
I dig through my pockets, empty
Still digging,
Hoping to carve the toll I need,
Non left upon cold eyes,
As it nears the huddled dock
The boat thuds against it,
Shaking my insides,
From out the nothingness of the cloak
That rows the floating carrier
A hand of rotting bones
Spilling maggots from its reach,
Pulls for me,
Waiting for my part of the barter,
The cloak senses my silent beggary
Without even facing my way,
An open palm slowly molds
Into an outstretched pointing finger, but
Not at me,
To a black cavern
That might as well be part of the wall,
It’s oblivion in this afterlife,
I collapse to my knees
Tugging on the heavy drapery
That pays me no attention,
Still pointing
Towards the engulfed wind,
The ferryman enraged, lifts his oar
Bringing it down upon the ground
Where I’m kneeling,
Giving it a violent quacke,
Then reverts back to pointing
At my eternal chasm,
I rather the immortal inferno, but
No penance for the ferryman
Brings about, an interminable wait.