Lit.Org - a community for readers and writers Advanced Search
 




Average Rating
0.00

(0 votes)

You must login to vote

Contains sickening unsettleing scenes

The Ghost of Midnight's Yore


Once upon a Winters night
at home alone and free from fright
He sits and ponders life's long costs
of his wife her death, his loss
He holds his head amidst his hands
and memories escape like sands
pushing through an hourglass
counting time as they too pass
He remembers when she passed away
not forgetting day to day
the night it came and took his wife
it took his love it took her life
Her pale face that he remembers
with eyes that shine like burning embers
A splendid aura presents her holy
presented before him for him solely
Clothed in painted angel white
A beacon highlight in the night
She hovers still but does not stay
and flickers quick then goes away
He tries again to see the scene
but thinks it as a seamless dream
As dreams come then as they take
and he realises he's still awake
Awakened no, his mind numbed but
one still sees dreams with eyes still shut
With head bowed down he frowns and sighs
and tears of black escape his eyes
then finally his eyes stop weeping
and settle closed in unsettled sleeping

A wicked wind blows in dark night
and hides the shaded raven white
A candle breathes and bleeds its last
Drawn curtains open memories past
It whispers in without a sound
and stands before him circling round
With eyes alight with black distain
and face outraged with seizing pain
Twisted, taunting, torn, uncaring
Stealing through its sockets staring
At the man with head in hands
that cannot see it where it stands
alone inside a cloudy bust
clothed in only shame and dust
The troubled downward perfect features
engraved in stone this flailed creatures
And all the while it never stirs
this demon requiemed dream of hers

Even though his eyes are closed
his whole body slumbered, dozed
He hears somewhere a distant moan
and realises he's not alone
Wakening from disjointed sleeping
there suddenly draws near a screaming
peeling out from in his lair
soft then loud but always near
He seeks around his vacant room
and tries to find this vagrant tune
It darts before him here then there
all around yet he's unaware
exactly really where it is
Is he out of mind or is it in his?
Then as it forms behind his eyes
he sees the thing in nights disguise
Its head uprears and leers a moment
and he stares back at this evil omen
a creature spawned from in his mind
a similacrum, stuck and blind
Looking through its spawned drawn scores
of messy, pocked, beguiling sores
of old degrading mental scorn
with pictures of the past withdrawn
and all he sees are scaring scenes
and all he hears are screeching screams
The scene before him starts to change
and things before him rearrange
dealings past so great and sordid
creep and change to something morbid
Images of fate and fear
that should not be and yet they're there!
His eyes alight with still closed sight
cast back to Winters silent night
to the horror that still haunts his dreams
and everything was as it seems
A wicked wind blows in the cold
and the forgotten memories of yore unfold

Him and her alone together
Her and him alone together
Tension breathes around the room
with no signals of impending doom
when both eyes gaze into each other
lover staring at another
He watches her eyes watching him
looking at her dusted skin
and thinks about her perfect guise
how it should be immortalised
He sits astride a concrete stone
the new bone of her concrete clone
then very slow without a noise
His chisel arcs a downward poise
He marks the solid stone in half
smiles, and begins to carve
Her tapered hair hangs high and low
kempt, untouched but does not show
her porcelin cheekbones soft and brittle
encaptured in the sculptors whittle
imprisoned in its stoney cell
with muted mouth that does not tell
of Winters white and dark Decembers
iced in her eyes of glowing embers
and as a tear falls down her cheek
her sculptor keeps on chiseling deep
into the stone that starts to purge
and facial traits of hers emerge
The chisel swivals two stone lips
A nose revealed through tiny chips
Expressive of the carvers skill
while he models his model still
His every movement so controlled
a storied drawing etched and told
But as his hand persists to draw
through frozen stone that hits the floor
He looks to it then at the bust
then to the floor with faint disgust
"The chips that fall onto the ground
and those still in this stony mound
are just the same as were before
they simply moved onto the floor"
Although pieces are rearranged
the stone before him has not changed
It stays a statue white and dead
despite the lifeless stone it's shed
And all the while time keeps counting
oblivious to tension mounting
throeing out from stilling din
She poses still before him
He sees her image staring blind
then that of hers staring behind
and as the two collide as one
inside the secret web he's spun
from the hand perfection draws
he sees his models many flaws
within the confines of her skin
cast against her deadened twin

"As times surpass your skin will weather
unlike this stone which lasts forever
Your porcelin looks the days will reap
Proving beauties just skin deep
From this stone your face appeared
In this moment I've ensnared
This dusted bust from you I've cast
Is deathless and will always last
But still the light in your face renders
From your eyes of burning embers
Beauty shining through your gaze
An icy warmth I can't engrave
Pure emphasis when I look at you
Non-existence in this statue"

Chisel grasped within his fingers
stirs but still his stuck stare lingers
to its face his chisel pries
and tears of stone escape its eyes
Emptying two round abysses
Through the stone its edge dismisses
Hollows chisels slices toward
Follows looking sightless forward
Tracing out two cold enclosures
Cameraless to lifes exposures
Beating slow anticipation
Breathing for the amputation

"You see my love, I need to steal
Some things from you to make this real"


------
I may be stupid but at least I'm not handsome.


Related Items

Comments

The following comments are for "The Ghost of Midnights Yore 1/2"
by Emlyn

A 'real' Artist
Emyln.

Well what a tangled web you weave! I thoroughly enjoyed this, and as I always write in rhyme, I cannot imagine either the work that has gone into this or your absolute fluency in your craft.

The ending...what can I say!

Well Done and Thank yo,

Ivor

( Posted by: ivordavies [Member] On: June 16, 2004 )

Thanks Ivor
Thank you very much for the high praise Ivor, it's taken me a long, long, long time to write. It started off as a tribute to Mr Poe but kinda changed its course. Anyway, in the second half I stomp on the sadist pedal and try to take this thing into sickness overdrive so please bear with it.

Thanks again.
Hamish

( Posted by: Emlyn [Member] On: June 17, 2004 )

Captivating
Artfully done!

( Posted by: Starscapeviews [Member] On: June 17, 2004 )

Scary baby
Thank you very much. I always feel flattered when writers such as yourself and Ivor comment on my work.

( Posted by: Emlyn [Member] On: June 20, 2004 )





Add Your Comment

You Must be a member to post comments and ratings. If you are NOT already a member, signup now it only takes a few seconds!

All Fields are required

Commenting Guidelines:
  • All comments must be about the writing. Non-related comments will be deleted.
  • Flaming, derogatory or messages attacking other members well be deleted.
  • Adult/Sexual comments or messages will be deleted.
  • All subjects MUST be PG. No cursing in subjects.
  • All comments must follow the sites posting guidelines.
The purpose of commenting on Lit.Org is to help writers improve their writing. Please post constructive feedback to help the author improve their work.


Username:
Password:
Subject:
Comment:





Login:
Password: