In the blackest hours ‘neath pallid moonlight,
I walk a road, this lamentable night,
To a lonely hill, where the crescent glows—
And the dead lie in eternal repose.

A phantasm of fear entwines my soul,
As I timidly climb this sullen knoll,
Her yearning specter relentlessly calls,
Drawing me nearer those decrepit walls.

I reach a gate of iron, locked years untold,
Set deep in the stone infected by mold,
Fiercely battered by a sudden gale,
They rattle like bones at the wind’s assail.

An ancient chain, consumed by leprous rust,
Finally snaps and crumbles into dust,
The gate lurches open with noisome groan,
And I stand to face this horror alone.

Stricken by the chill, cadaverous air,
Reeking of damp earth and lilies of despair,
Creeping forth, past that bleak yawning jaw—
Repulsing me, yet still I feel her draw.

Now my tormented soul begins to seethe,
Her glassy whisper, bids me never leave —
I am seized by fear that I cannot tame,
And shudder as her phantom speaks my name.

Beyond tombstones, moss crusted, cracked and gray
Skeletal wizened willows twist and sway,
Drawing my gaze with their spectral allure—
Towards her open, marble sepulcher.

Far beneath the glow of a lunar gloom,
A scent comes wafting—grotesque perfume—
Carried upon a sallow, misty plume,
As I’m beckoned from within the tomb.

Now the air has taken an icy hold,
My fated undoing starts to unfold,
Through that awful doorway, drenched in shadows—
A terror awaits, grim as the gallows.

Crossing the threshold of this marble maw,
I see her visage, my heart, tortured raw,
Gripped by her love, a fatal, binding charm—
As the heavy door screeches shut with harm.

And now, terror racks my inmost being,
While all the vain echoes of my screaming
Bound fast within that all-devouring grave
Where no voice, no cry, no prayer may save.

Here only echoes wail for swallowed light,
On this melancholy, endless night,
With no release from my terrible doom—
To forever haunt this forsaken tomb.

Still alone upon that destitute mound,
In that cold, dark tomb where no screams resound,
A shadowed figure concealed evermore,
Listening for footsteps outside their door.
©️ 2025 David Cornetta

Blue skies call on me
Clouds float with a toss of their fluff
Ripples ripple in the lake
Birds pirouette to their own songs
The butterflies tango with the roses
The hibiscus sway
A million leaves sashay
The wind taps at my window
Seems to take my hand —
"Shall we…
Shall we dance?"

it used to have me bored
till the roam saw greater overpass
lacking value, lacking cash
in these times even the brokest can catch some a*s.

2018 scene , was the year of thirteen
confused then till I hit the pen
the skaters always been too “bold”
too “crazy-like” , yeah we fight
all in our right.

these same parks saved me from a sin
reminiscing the first time to one watching “cherry” with a grin -

now peaking with motivation
rather than bored

let’s cruise down in the Valley
learn something more in high hope
may be a little demure
when skating though,
the wheels turn to show -
who’s really true
who’s really pure.

and that’s from your$truly

Pitter Patter, Pitter Patter
Man’s cries, children's laughter
Leaving home, an infinite daughter
Maybe if I cared more, loved harder
If they didn't leave me, my mind altered
Then I wouldn't be here, a complete disaster
Crumbling like weak plaster

I am here after all
Waiting for that morning call
Worrying about a forever fall
Did I even have the gall?
To throw that curve-ball?
I’d never felt so small
Though I won't let it be my downfall
I'll come back again like rainfall

I am not who I was
I applied the gauze
Even though I was the cause
I never broke our laws
They sank into my, their razor-sharp claws
Straight to the bone, they gnawed
Then, suddenly, they paused
Started with their slow applause
A joke of the court, I was

So I told them no
They packed in their big show
Set off with precious cargo
All they were was fake snow.

Atop the curve of a carved stone dome,
well gilded by rays of many setting suns,
Fortune pirouettes and prances all alone
while her clockwork wheels rhythmically run.

With each new tick of her timeless clock,
she spins the drivewheel another round
and dances ’round the clockwheels’ cogs
in freedom, from our cares unbound.

The spring in her step drives clock’s time,
a rhythmic dance with outstretched hands
that point to sorrows or high cloud nine
as suits her music: She won’t come to a stand.

Would that we could pass the years
like Fortune, a lady unwound by our fears.

Rhythms,
Unashamed sounds,
Playing to the beat of their internal drum,
No fear of questioning,
But unleashing originality as it comes.