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Sonorant Nov 2021
I. Phasmophobia
I am the innumerable gloom of dim, long-buried anthems.
In wistful suspension, I shadow over a living loft in silence.
Tethered between lines, my fog bleeds on panes in knocking
Hawking your dimming faces in the lamplight of my genesis.
Torn the tunnels of their astringed throats, a requiem is reaped.
— ”I was a shape moving rapidly, nervous at the edge of your vision.” -Cynthia Huntington

II. Claustrophobia
I am the small match ignited from the depths of your mind.
My walls blanched absent of evacuation, self invite into
Your personal and private violation, invading every fissure
With icy burns, solidifying your chrysalis on hungry bark.
Your frozen God of smothering doom, a willow devours you.
— “But then I remember the universe was closed, and so very small. There was really no where else to go.” -Peter Watts

III. Ommetaphobia
I am the stricken, scarlet cloth coalesced of cruelty and ichor.
These rawboned talons, cloaked thereof, overtake embrace—
In coarse delight— a piety of prisoners’ silver stark sights.
Perceptive cavities leak my garb as my artistic blade sweeps.
Plucked from the dredges of a briny skull, two diamond orbs.
— ”The hearts hushed secret is in the soft, dark eye." -Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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IV. Monophobia
I was the cherished friend to you, my twine stitched in your grasp.
A golden balloon unaffected by tides of time and distorting gales.
Alas from this intimate atmosphere shot an arrow, poisonous
Where silently I erupt into a missing memory upon the wind.
As your curtains close, you breathe for me, without a hand to hold.
—”And all I lov’d, I lov’d alone.” -Edgar Allan Poe

V. Arachnophobia
I am the legion of soundless beholders aloft your dormant dreams.
An itch scattered over the crooked spine, arid for pulsing melodies.
This fruitful sapling beckons each dark, angular limb near your neck.
As my lighting strikes erratically, your foolish impulse slow to clutch
Creeping necrosis bestowed by the guardian who claimed your home.
—”The Spider taketh with her hands and is in king’s palaces.” -Proverbs 30:28.

VI. Agoraphobia
I am the ancestral abductor of this rotting womb you deem a shelter.
As the embryo held within, I contract you into tides and bid ‘swim’.
Directions devoid, beyond bolted doors, you plummet to my depths
Where you wish for comforts’ wind but mislaid the method to breathe.
My otherworld encompasses you, whilst I drink in your suffocating.
— ”Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children.” -William Thackeray

VII. Ecclesiophobia
I am the black shepherd in martyric masque and a mitre casque.
A discrete imminent sheep cowers, hanging on the hook in my gallery—
My chalice congregates your pure liquor of laments for libertine luxury.
I rise where you fall and smother the lantern of your last mortal minutes
Instilling final grace in the stillness of your veins, my kingdom reigns eternally.
— ”Suffering can be a gift.” - Abbie Bernstein.
Seven Nielsen Oct 2021
Vlad's favorite soup
was such a treat
eyeballs and skin slabs
and fingers and feet

he loved to ****
on the sockets and bones
and chew on the ears
and noses of crones

eyelids were good
on bread made with blood
but only if pureed
to look just like mud
A humble Halloween offering.
JKirin Oct 2021
Rotten smell.
Stale water.
In this well –
a monster.

Twisted horns,
horrid maw –
a wild beast!
You would know...

You entrapped it in there,
but to leave, don't you dare.

It is stuck
in the dark –
cannot run
nor attack.

The beast calls
from the pit –
you can hear
it weep.

You entrapped it in there...
Its sad cries, you must bear.
about a monster, but which one?
JKirin Sep 2021
Regal,
vile—
the beast aims to ****
but I am frozen in place.
My blood's running still
in its frightening grace,
and I smile—
regal,
vile.
about being mesmerized by a beast
ok okay Aug 2021
Decaying and forgotten
The daffodils have turned rotten

His hollow mind
Too young to be left unseen
He sees the twisted horrors
That no one else seems to see
They exist where no one wants to look
In the corners of our smiles
And the coldness of our breath
The twisted horrors drive him insane
They push him to the edge


Decaying and forgotten
The daffodils have turned rotten
Neglected
They lay
No life to display
One time they stood tall
And now they are one with their shadow
Maybe he will fall too
Becoming one with his shadow
Or maybe he just needs to dream..
havent posted on here in ages, been on insta a bit..
Seven Nielsen Aug 2021
on the charted floor of souls
fire heats twelve iron bowls
rafters echo devil screams
arms and legs hang from the beams

roast the skin with castor seeds
hair of crone and spice of weeds
stir and mix the flesh and blood
till the supper looks like mud

splintered skulls of fresh-chopped heads
each laid out on nightshade beds
plates of bone and knives of steel
sharpened for the midnight meal

who will choose the honored seats?
who will serve the roasted meats?
who will **** the sockets dry?
who will live, and who will die?

if you serve the master's will
every wish of his fulfill
if you heed the master's call
he might eat you last of all
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