The Fatal Night

It begins oh so serenely on that star laden eve, a cover of light lacking darkness to hide this sinfully damned scene

All strolls along smoothly in a carefully choreographed cascade, till the dagger enters flesh swiftly in a manner that would make the word sabotage silently weep

To the fall a misstep carries the fated form to whence even demons do drunkly scream, a bar on your lonesome to mark as a gravestone happiness’s tomb

The damned do fit the fated bottle an awesome treat, as would a stream of blood from my fatally sliced wrist


He hath cast his will to the point it all depicts

A slightly slight of fated acts

The wheels to where he is bound will mark with stone a pit

As all his worth is refined into collections of words peppered with mournful wit

          Hatred so pure as to dissolve with a single drip any semblance of positive will

        Friendships lost to rivers burning through the bridges once so strong

      Love a hollow pit from whence the demon was both born and died

    Life a lie into which the damned sacrifice themselves to stay numb

  For feeling is a nightmare raised in the depths of emotional graves

And never sits right for those whose hatred is strongest for themselves

A Joke; I can’t cry so all I have to show emotions is by taking a knife to my flesh


On what a Kingdom Stands

​ A kingdom may stand as it requires to be

In such a fine or ruined form for the world to see

It is all in the ground, the sky and storm

That human nature does control

In the troubled or calm way such a godly power decrees 

That the character of a man will succeed 

Or in unearthly insanity decay

A Gifts Repent

A mime is admired for skilled silence of an acting admission of imaginary jest

A clown a comical genius of all the style one would not imagine would irradiate from falling flat on their face

A tightrope walker deathly tempting on a line as suspended as the audiences breath as in daring rebellion he risks a death

I rage a temper in a fitful storm of furious words only muttered in civilised circles under whispered breath

For my skills reek of ill mood and drift into arms where comical and civil do die in flames of emblazoned anger and dryly dark jest

Such is me

Who better suits black and red