Gothic

Tomorrow Laughs

Tomorrow laughs
full bellied and bold
clutching Today
lifeless and cold.
Its shadow a victor
no eye may behold.

It kicks Yesterday
into a corner of shame
and covers its presence
in moments unclaimed.
Tomorrow then sups up
whatever remains.

Tomorrow laughs
with swollen wide fingers
that beat a staccato
on bells and their ringers,
and the Future she smiles
save those who have seen her.

Standing full height
Tomorrow touches the sky
Sunrise's reflection
it's pale mighty eye
awake on the waters
of the oncoming tide.

Tomorrow laughs
that's its echo you hear
in the engulfing broad silences
of the Night's
layered tiers
of something approaching
that waits to appear.

Tomorrow laughs
and laughs
and laughs
and laughs
then laughs even more:
over weeping word widows
and motherless brides;
over lid welded warriors
and rich men's asides;
over babies unbundled
and swollen belly lies;
over writers and written
and lovers and sighs.

Over everything
seen, held, coddled, and clutched
Tomorrow laughs
with a grin
finger to lips, hush.

Tomorrow laughs,
as sure as leaves descend
in the Fall.
Ashes
or boxes
Tomorrow laughs at us all.

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The 3rd Riddle

And in that place forgotten deep
grows the Tower, a darkened keep,
and there the ones that sleep
feel the halls with frightened screams.

To play their game makes one their slave,
makes one's pallor a haunting shade,
for the stones they cast
are the bones that laugh
well beyond the grave.

Your sealed away till one dark day
you also play their tune.
You'll pray for life, you'll pray for light,
seen: two eyes, twin baleful moons.

Maiden's madness mingles
with fears of fical youths
who shine for time in wayward mines
till teller tells times are do.

The vast bell wrings
and cobwebs swing
with petty mortal forms.
The coil it snaps,
the Beast it taps,
the door closes on their tomb.

"Heard no more,
heard no more"
the solemn make their cry,
for the stones they cast
are the bones that laugh
beyond the mortal sky.

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The 2nd Riddle

The house of distant shadows
hidden in the vale
grows deeper in its weeping
ribbed in bones of pale.

The clockwork constellations still
their frozen fingers pinned
threaded deep was the strike
that let the Other in.

The day was night, the moment bare
of breath and living thrust
the sleeper's dream washed distant shore
as their spirit doors were brushed.

One flaw, one crack, was all the need
as the other breached the seal
one step, one theft of every soul
was the sickening of the deal.

For the making of a place
to wear lament codemn
the Other strips away
the breath which holds us in.

To fill a place with silence
devoid of sound and life
to create a place of shadows
where houses weep in fright.

The Other lays its mark,
dead grey its symbol fine,
creating fields of lost
in the corners of the mind.

The harvest fat and sweet
the taste of pain and why
the ending clear complete
the Other's way - comply.

Leave what's hidden in the vale
for it is of the nevermore
the house shadows there lie weeping
for the Other is at the door.

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The 1st Riddle

Silence sat sitting
in a house within the sound
of Echo's hall hallowed
to embrace the shallow ground.

Red umber hues the breeze
dark cliffs that face the sea
grasp skys of darks and grey
as wind whips waves to quay.

No life bestirs the plain
nor rains that wash away
the dust off mortal panes
lying bleached beneath the Stain.

The stones that use to speak
underneath the mortals feet
have begun their subtle leak
back to ancient shapes.

The decay of every page
lays near and dear to dust
both fruits of all things lost
missing hands to keep in trust.
(lacking those hands to keep the trust.)

The Ageless Armor sits
to its side the Sword of Lore
their color red with rage
for the lords who are no more.

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Twice Sung

the tale is done
the story sung
the clock clicks no more
the gamble made
the stakes displayed
the Gambler's game Amor
twice the Singer
sung the tale
as dark night did fade
and twice the chill
that sweep the room
tossed quiet sleepers shapes

his hollow cheeks
his darken caste
his crippled countenance
his painful tones
his dreadfilled poem
his haunted fountain pen(wrinting pen?)

surely, no man may must
allow the heart to rust
but upon hearing such a tale
would rather run away
to cast out the vulnerable flaw
into the Ocean's gaping maw
so to avoid that hungry touch
that kills the heart you clutch

and horror, and horror
to have heard the tale twice told
and sorrow, and sorrow
for love once warm now cold

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The Silent Sitter

the silent sitter sat
in the seat next to me
his paling pallid presence
felt in mystery

a strange storm steals and thunders
the frozen fragile frames
of windows waxed and washed
in mist from coldest seas

the warp of wood
and the wheel wound right
the prow of ships
silhouette the night

and, the quiet widow prays
in candles that light away
the meloncholy chill
of memories that play
making minutes mince and stray

grey tones of ancient stones
leech red rimmed rust
from igots of iron forged
dripping tears to cobblestones
and cracks of mud and dust

bells blossom and peel
floating bodies, flotsam, and keel
stones rounded by the sea

a piece of quartz
an old man's knee

a lone seagull
with wounded wing
a missing eye
a piece of string

neither, night nor day seen in these fogs of grey

which,
with misted fingers reach
through quiet drenched wet streets

silent in the settling
in wind's watchful wail
still the quiet's nettling
spins a mortal tale

the silent sitter sat
in the seat next to me
my greatest wish the sound
as the sitter
silent
leaves.

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STORY OF THE SKULL IN THE DESERT

Ever seen a corpse in the blazing sun
the blood congeals and doesn't run.
Over the body the flies do spread
like rotten butter on moldy bread.
The skin is blue, the eyes are red.
The body huge, and air filled bed.
The tongue sticks out all swollen and black,
a frozen smile, the teeth can't clack.
The legs are limp, the arms are slack,
a fallen in house without a tack.
The chest doesn't move for lack of breath,
no future goals or dreams are left.
A broken book you cannot heft
but if you could
the last page says:
Death.

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My Morbid Mind

So I have this terribly morbid idea.
I was thinking
that even if I do manage to achieve my "perfect self",
to rid myself of the flaws that haunt me,
my beauty is still destined to fade as I age.
The thought terrifies me.
No matter what I do
I shall end up ugly...
and most likely alone.
And so I had this idea.
This revolting solution to my fears.
Achieve my perfect self,
with flocks of admirers singing my praises;
dress myself up something glamorous,
with razor sharp eyelashes and crimson lips;
and then...
blow my brains out.

It's so selfish.
It's so simple.

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Phantom Lives again

I awake to find myself in my old leather armor
Scars and stitches, all wrapped around me again
The daze look spreads from my eyes to my body
Swallowing my heart and soul, taking me all in
I could not ... How could this be happening?
Thought this dark man had perished
How did this darkness within me get free
This could not be happening now...
Am I that lost that I awake in my old nightmare self
One that thirst satisfied by war, blood and havoc

Hunger fulfilled with angry, lust, and darkness
It has been years since I had been this man
When I was last this man, he was a boy
This persona... this one persona I fear
Because if it is awakening than that means
Evil omens are going to raid soon
To awake finding myself in this nightmare persona
Startles me, why the Highway Phantom?
I don't wanna run like I use to
I am rooted, stubborn and worn out
Yet, here I am staring into the reflection
of the rain puddles on my Highway
I thought I escaped, but how could I escape
The man I am, I am this persona
Always have been, always will be

For I am the scars and stitches
The exhausted leather armor
Wrapping itself around me
The guns are gone, the Bal'dons are back
I fear this persona has come awake
What war lurks around the next bend?
That is this persona... the knight, veteran, the darkness
All that I am... all that I am...

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