Home
Prose
Pictures
Roleplay
Other
Links

What is There to Fear in the Dark?

What is there to fear in the dark?
What makes us run from lightless caves,
from the night to our bright houses?
Perhaps it is the fact
that evil is often associated with black,
devoid of life, without light
�like the night.
What is there to fear in the dark?
Perhaps when the light goes,
our sight goes,
and we cannot see the predators,
the dangers,
the noise in the brush;
perhaps the loss of our vision
leaves us defenseless against the unknown
�what happened to sound, smell, and touch?
What is there to fear in the dark?
Perhaps the ghosts of tales from bygone days,
returning to haunt our thoughts,
cause our minds to perceive
the wind as the moans of the dead,
the settling house � a stranger creeping up the stairs,
the moon-cast shadows � lurking horrors waiting to smother us in their dark
�or worse.
What is there to fear in the dark?
Perhaps the fear itself.

Oblivion

Something�s there I cannot see
A darkness deep inside of me
Wanting, fighting, to be free
Shadows stirring as I flee

Something�s there I cannot hear
Bitter as a held-back tear
It�s growing power I do fear
As silence deafens my list�ning ear

Something�s there I cannot smell
Harshly acrid, cold as hell
Sounding doom, a blackened bell
Long ago lost, long ago fell

Something�s there I cannot taste
Sugar-spun but poison-laced
All illusion, what a waste
A part of me I cannot face

Something�s there I cannot feel
And yet it hurts, a fiery weal
Here, then gone, it will not heal
Confusing me, is it real?

Something�s there I cannot sense
As I live on in ignorance
Of this darkness; endless, immense
Save me from this lost existence�

Crusader (by my brother)

Dimmed sun gleams
off tarnished armor,
and horses' sweaty flanks;
As sun strikes twelve
in the land of fire,
he trudges through banks of sand
and seas of shattered rock,
though sun be fading,
his resolve does fail,
and like an ancient tower
standing against the dark,
he topples from his weary mount;
fallen face-down in the sand,
he rots away as armor rusts,
lying in the land of fire,
and dies as all men must.

Death Chant

One more fight,
One more kill,
One more time we let blood spill.
One more hunt,
One more chase,
One more life by hate embraced.

One more slain,
One more dead,
One more time we stain earth red.
One more death,
One more end,
One more soul to Hell we send!

Wind

Whisper through the trees
Sigh along the ground
Whistle in the eaves
Shriek at thunder's sound

Smooth away my tears
Whip the waves to white
Press away my fears
Sting with winter's bite

Colorless as ice
Shapeless as the sea
And elemental bird;
Powerful and free

Raid

As crystal falls, her frozen tears
shatter the silence that lingers here.
Ash, not snow, blankets the ground in white;
swirling smoke turns day to night.

Dwindling warmth belies the cold within;
an icy heart beneath flame-licked skin.
But the dying sparks don't pierce her hide;
numbed with sorrow for all that has died.

A once-green village; a pleasant town;
burned by greed, in cruelty torn down.
Now amid the sad remains she stands;
the sole survivor on her blackened lands.

Fallen

I know why some angels fell,
trading sunlit Heaven for cold, dark Hell.
Wearied they of Hope's bright wings,
and bringing to the world impossible things.

Now, I never knew hope to be so wearing;
wasn't easy thought to be dreaming and caring?
But it's hard to hold on when you're all alone,
lost in the night, heart turned to stone.

But now I know, as shadow blinds my eyes;
pride stifles my movements, and distance, my cries.
Cut off from salvation, and too late distraught
am I drawn into the darkness, inescapably caught.

To Grow Up

Pull back
curl up in the darkness
hide from the light that reveals all you are.

Close eyes
run from the day
stay and be lost in the night, and dream.

Turn away
ignore all that�s real
abandon the ground for the freedom of the sky.

Brace self
take courage and grow
face the sunlight, your dreams at your back,
and walk the fine line between reality and illusion...

Not Really A Poem

Silence.

And stillness.

No almost inaudible hiss of a sleepy sigh. No breath attempting to warm the frosty air, only to be frozen and dissipated, a hazy memory of a dream of spring. No slow drip of snow off branches, bitter-white lace wrapped tight as a burial shroud around mourning-dark limbs. Blue light; twilight; cold as starlight. Funeral light, showing the world through the softly hopeless eyes of logic. Sunlight and summer; not sleeping, but dead.

And stillness.

Not waiting, for there is no hope. But what is there to do but exist? Here, seconds slide by to the dusty past, unnoticed, water draining through fingers to dry sand. Unnoticed; life and motivation frozen to complacence, entranced by the beauty and peace of death.

Untitled

When I think of my parents these days,
it is with a curious hate-tinged love
I've never felt before.
I'm not quite sure if there's reasons for everything I feel,
or if it's only my inherent teenager-ness
manifesting itself, and screwing my brain.
I know:

They love me.

(But how much?

And is some of this certainty only a child's blind devotion?

I'm finally realizing, in them, the entirety of 'unconditional love'.

...or do they only see, and love, my perfections;

would they be bitter at my settling for less than they believed I could be?)

They're pretty damned annoying.

(Always pushing!

For independence, for industriousness, for growing up.

Telling me they're proud -but never that I'm good enough.

Which begs the question, when do I stop?)