#poetry

There’s a reason I won’t go to Mockingbird Park, Not just ‘cause it’s creepy, not just ‘cause it’s dark; There are twisty twined trees, there are weeds and neglect, But worse than all that is the “mocking” effect. As you walk the park paths, you’ll hear a faint echo – Footfalls – your own? – in that dim and grim ghetto, Coming closer and closer as if someone’s there... You whirl and see no one, just fog on the air. So you whistle – it whistles. You cough – and it coughs.

Ruby, crimson, scarlet. The colour of fire, of passion, of pain. Red. How I love it. It was beautiful. The boldness, the warmth of the colour stirred something deep inside me. It whispered to the very core of my being. Dark, seductive. Velvet promises of unrivalled pain and pleasure. It made me feel alive, but it was so rarely found pure and untouched. Red. Its essence, I could only behold it in fleeting glimpses. It always vanished before I could really appreciate that loveliness.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a collection of "Horror Haiku" short poetry about Greek Mythology Monsters & Creatures. There are 5 poems about each creature. The idea behind this is to try guessing the name of each creature before unveiling the final Haiku. Three-headed hound guards, Entrance to the underworld, Terror from within. Beneath the moon's light, Fiery eyes, sharp teeth, red tongues, Hound of Hades' realm. Guarding the abyss, Three jaws, fangs dripping venom, Preys on the lost souls.

Someone asked me, “Who are you?” I answered quickly, “I’m glory.” But they smiled. They looked into my eyes, not kindly. “No,” they said, “Who are you?” The question didn’t leave. It followed me home, sat at the edge of my bed. Who am I? Who is glory? I try to think. A depressed soul? Too easy. A tired one? That’s just the surface. Glory. Glory. Glory. I’m limited by my problems, That I can't see past them. Glory. Glory. Glory. Say it enough times,

In the blood-warm waters of dream There is a place A forest. In the center, a calm, frozen stream gleams in the moonlight Tall trees stand infinitely on all sides You cannot leave You have no desire to. It is dark Blurred streaks of blues and greens run seamlessly through the forest You know that there is a reason For this imprisonment each night The forest wants something from you. A thick silence Gentle wind softly brushes your face Leaves bristle in anticipation

In the darkest night, where shadows creep, The Soulstitchers come when you should sleep. With gaunt and shadowy forms they stride, To haunted places, they will guide. Their flames are smoke, icy-cold and bleak, A formless fire that none can speak. Frantic movements, masks they wear, Tearing at their faces, a chilling scare. Yet in the silence, they move so sly, No sound to mark their passage by. To the site of trauma, they'll lead you near, In hopes that you will face your fear.

Sacred Spirit came to me and reached out for my hand, whispered words of comfort so I could understand. Birth, Death Rebirth, Cycles of a whole never ending just eclipsed the cycles of the soul.

I sliced the arms and legs. I sew together each vein. Delicate patterns of lace, and the soft blush of first love. My palms are stained red. The needle slipped in, swiftly as the sleek body of a fish. Sans hésitation A gentle gush of warmth, Flowing freely from each cut. Catching in the cracks of the pavement And between my lovers lips These are only the amateur first strokes Of my watercolour painting. Next are the fingernails. which have endured the brunt for many years,

In shadows of October dawn Was when the sickness came Foul breath of death wanton Denizens plagued in blain . I saw from high window As death drew nigh in tow Courier sent afar Then close my door ajar . As the leaves grew redder And the days grew dire My flock grew fettered Flayed upon the pyre . Cast in glow of dying wick I, too, could feel the sick Solitude in this shadowy hour Locked away inside this tower . Rolling past autumn plains Haze of grey sinks low