- - - The Shadow of Poetry - - -

Written and Illustrated by Benjamin Andrew Fouché

The Unworldly Purgatory

I gazed into the blackened shadows,
And thus, I envisioned their horrid purpose.
Once, they had soared freely from beyond;
But alas, they have been imprisoned here with us.
Foolish like I, they knew not of the darkness;

The lonesome and dejected wailed for an end.
But the forsaken and loathed pleaded for a beginning.
And here I linger alone today––nevermore shall come the morrow;
Witnessing the madness flourish deep within,
I endure the everlasting gloom of which enshrouds my temporal soul.

 

Unhallowed Desires

During my many dreary days and dusky nights,
A sullen reverie conjures forth my spirit with an irredeemable might.  
To invoke a nightmare from my merits of fright;
And to implore to the heavens to bear no light.

I shall give no remorse to the deplorable living;
And to all I shall seem rather unforgiving.
The nightly winds shall whisper, “I am willing.”
And all will become creatures who shall begin the wilting.

 

The Dead Tree

For all who gaze upon the hill;
Such a thing shall daze their foolish minds.
Mangled and gnarled, the arms hang low;
Knotty and lofty, the tree reeks woe.

The brisk gusts cause its wood to croak,
And the bristly bark––grittier than oak.
Whose arms reach out to the heavens above;
Whose roots rot deep, never was there love.

Weathered and timeworn, indeed it had endured.
And the day it hung loosely, all the spectres mourned.
Now it rests in decay, yet cannot be torn;
And from beneath it, a darkness was borne.

Wavering at dusk, in the gale of the forsaken;
A brewing whirlwind, in the dale of the awakened.
Desolate and forlorn, the spirits of the hidden.
A dwelling they had uncovered, and forth they had stridden.

They settled there for all nights eternal;
And only those, of all the immortal.
Can linger upon the hill of the dead tree;
So thus its secrets and mysterious may evermore remain unseen.

 

The Swallowing Insanity

The Nocturnal Hours have finally drawn near,
And now, I must illustrate such exquisite fear.
The unendurable screaming are melodies to my ear;
Knowing they have been devoured by my beloved dear.

An endeavor so immense, it whelmed the earth.
My wondrous sentiments increased during my rebirth.
And tonight I feel of such great worth;
While I adore the doom in my unrelenting mirth.

We have lunged forth as a shadowed wraith.
And we have grown into our ghastly faith.
“Your pathetic time has come.” I saith;
And now we watch our endless skaith.  

 

Secrets of Silence

Of hillocks bleak and meadows meek;
Where maples keep and willows weep.
Upon black wings the ebon vulture sings;
Carols of the dead whose spectres have shed.

Cast into kettles, always this unsettles.
Brewing to a boil, thus begins a toil.
Never are they weary, dreadful they are purely.
Darkness they are merely, creatures they are dearly.

Away and yonder, never do they ponder.
While we hunt in the night, far from all earthly sight.
As tempests that have thundered, always have I wondered.
From whence came my soul, and why is it lull?

 

An Unseen Wickedness

And thus it came, and thus it went,
Soaring to and fro, The Darkness never slept. 
Through insights deep, with the light we lent,
Souls of anguish, The Darkness Kept. 

 

Tobias

Midst’ the gloom and decay,
Thy spirit shalt swoon today.

A grief of great graveness,
Hath descended from blackness.

Obscured among the final heir,
 Who weeps with great despair.
 
Lone and dull,
Forlornly and lull.

 The night whelms the day,
Thus Tobias scurries dolefully away.

 

Wonderer of the Night

Its heavens enwrap me in ebon silk,
Its scarce rays descend as ghostly milk.

For those who shall see what it has wrought,
Indeed a darkness shall be brought.
 
I fear not stride with the shadows of dusk,
For they, once like I, wore their husk.

Underneath the starry veil of majesty,
I behold its oldest mystery. 

 

The Rite of the Forsaken

To-night we hymn of death,
And to-morrow we silence the lands,
With the exquisite quietude of our hearts.

Beyond the shadowed shores of dusk,
A demesne forever awaits us,
And underneath the maples’ arms,
Our souls soar yonder.

Inert we stay when the draughts whisper,
Of The Empress borne from ancient will.

But empathy there was none,
For ebon was Her spirit’s hue.

And from Her desire an illness was borne,
Eternally unto the temporal world,
Tenebris Morbus slithered—deliberately,
Thus The Dark Sickness lived.

Her grave rites were conveyed,
And Tenebris Morbus pierced,
Through the material veil,
Madness was The Plague’s only wish,
He gathered the frail and forsaken,
And everlastingly they reigned in communion.

Always shall The Dark Sickness reside,
Within every mortal’s mind,
And onward, shall It compel,
Those who weaken by the waning earth.

To-night we hymn of death,
And to-morrow we silence the lands,
With the exquisite violence of our hearts.

Beyond the shadowed shores of dusk,
A demesne forever awaits us,
And underneath the maples’ arms,
Our souls linger always.

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