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You profess you dream of me,

what nightmares you must suffer;

Your shallow sleep betrays you senses,

for you believe I am divine;

What heart beats strong inside your chest,

your Mortal life force flowing;

Tis I who steals your soul's bequest,

in my frozen arms, you're dying.

Strange patterns of blood washed dreams,

my lust, your blood,

The Ancients scream my name;

For all I once was, there is little left but death.

Belonging only to the night,

stilled as stone in my demise;

My fear, your death, your souls regret.

The shades of night were brooding,

o'er the sea, the earth, the sky;

The passing winds were wailing,

in a low, unearthly sigh.

The darkness gathered deeper,

for no starry light was shed,

And silence reigned unbroken,

as the silence of the dead.

COMMENTS

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birra
14:27 Jul 20 2009

I like that one. Reminds me of a storm at sea I watched approaching....

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POST COMMENT

Poets are strange--not always understood

By many is their gift,

which is for evil, or for good.

Sometimes one little word,

whispered sweet and fleet,

That scarcely can be heard,

our ears will sudden meet.

And all life's hours along

that whisper may vibrate,

And like a wizards song,

decide our every fate.

I nearly died, I almost touched the door

that swings between forever and no more;

I think I heard the awful hinges grate,

hour after hour, while I did weary wait.

Death's coming; but alas! twas all in vain:

The door half-opened, and then closed again.

When the twilight sadly, slowly

wrapped its mantle o'er them all,

Thousands, thousands lying lowly,

hushed in silence, deep and holy,

There was one, his blood was flowing

and his last of life was going.

How swift they go,

Life's many years,

With their winds of woe

And their storms of tears,

And their darkest of nights whose shadowy slopes

Are lit with the flashes of starriest hopes,

And their sunshiny days in whose calm heavens loom

The clouds of the tempest-the shadows of gloom.

Some reckon their age by years,

Some measure their life by art;

But some tell their days by the flow of their tears,

And their lives by the moans of their heart.