In the heart of the graveyard, where darkness lingers,
Trees bend and sway their dancing skeletal fingers,
Whispers of ghosts fill the midnight air,
A chilling ghostly melody, a silent prayer.

Demons lurking, their eyes aglow,
Dancing in circles where cold winds blow.
Torches on the mausoleum flame and shadows dance,
As spirits awaken from the grave with the night's advance.

The smoke rises higher, a sparkling fire,
A haunting tune from a spectral choir.
Close your eyes, stay quiet and still,
The spirits are playing, having a thrill.

In the depths of the graveyard shade,
Ghosts sing softly, a haunting serenade.
Goblins and ghouls in a flickering light,
Dancing around fires in the dark of night.

On a mid autumn's eve, when the veil is thin,
The spirits emerge and nightmares begin.
Vampires hide in the misty haze,
Their laughter echoes through a foggy maze.

The wind plays games on the fearful kind,
Graves cast eerie shadows rising behind,
Branches reaching fingers, leaves like skin,
In the heart of the graveyard where terror begins.

Firelight dances as witches take flight,
Beckoning spirits through the stillness of night.
Flames grow higher, shadows stretch long,
A chorus of spells in a caster's song.

Flee far away and don't you look back!
For the horrors are near, red eyes turned black,
Take cover in the shadows of the fallen trees,
Feel their breath on this all hallows eve!

Midnight gloom fades, the spirits retreat,
But the forest remembers their haunting beat.
When October returns and moonlight gleams,
The witches will laugh and ghosts will scream.

Shadows loom where the whispers creep,
Time’s a notion, it's now lost in sleep,
A thirteenth ticking echoes in my mind,
The world keeps turning, but I’m lost behind.

Eternal laughter echoes of a forgotten power,
Darkness descends as the clock strikes the hour,
Countdown second's clicks, in a sinister flair,
Reality’s torn thread, frayed beyond repair.

Thirteenth hour, where real and nightmares blend,
Rapid breath frozen still, as the chimes transcend,
Down in purgatory descends screaming through out
In the echoing chamber, let the horrific truth mount.

Ethereal ones drift and the lost souls roam,
A haunted beat, chorus of the unknown,
The clock strikes dark, beats pulse in fright,
In the twilight zone, comes forth the night.

Hands of fate proceed, as time's face weep,
Feel the tick pulse, the dark runs too deep,
Silhouettes flicker in the midnight's light,
Lost in the rhythm, we dance into the night.

Believing a power of after hours pass by,
Ghosts of the spirit realm give a forgotten cry,
The clock strikes again, hear the thirteenth toll,
In the grip of fear, time will reclaim our soul.

The clock may stop, but we never fade,
In the thirteenth hour, is the grave we made,
Shadows lurking tall, shrinking daylight subside.
In the echoes of time's past, we shall now abide.

We use metaphors in poetry.
Something dramatic and attention-catching
to stand in for something ordinary.
Metaphors are poet's best friend.
After all, a poem without descriptive language is just
a really dramatic essay.
So my question is?
How do you know when they stop being metaphors?
Would you even ever know?
If it's dramatic enough,
no one will know.

On these pages: a story writ.
Not lines of love, near opposite.
With wicked words, bursting seams.
and pictures ripped from horror scenes.

This transcript: tallied tragedy
seemed clear, at first, of trickery
such that I said, with full belief:

“I simply bought a book,

simply bought a simple book

bought a simple book this early morn.”

Nary a choice did I resent
more than my steps up staircase bent.

Had I known what fate was in store,
I would’ve stopped short of the door
and listened to my heart’s retort
turn my back to oaken boards;
neglect to knock, proceed no more.

Alas, the wiser choice did seem
like foreign words I could not read
a weaker foe to curiosity.
Thus on the door, my knocks numbered three.

On portal’s edge, the wait did seem
a lifetime spent, eternity.
Heard racing heart, mistakening
its pounding pulse for echoed feet.

A lock’s release, my wait was for;
an unlatched, oaken, ornate door.
As portal opened to the store,
of echoed feet, I thought  no more.  


Creaking hinges, a'rust with age
made way for shopkeep's leathered face.
His cobwebbed volumes filled the space
and gave the air a smell and taste.

My steps were slow; I didn’t know
what book, which nook, my search was for.
So I walked the aisles, for a while.

‘Till a hidden book stood out

A hidden nook stood out

A hidden book’s nook stood out.

Into that nook, up to that book
my outstretched arms raised hands that shook.

But now I see that I was blind
to evil glint in shop-keep's eye,
and how my steps had crossed the line,
but like a fool who pays no mind,
I gripped book's spine, as chill gripped mine.

Alas, Where once I felt so free
that “simple” book imprisoned me!
Looking back, it's plain to see:
Text locked the door, and tossed the keys.

On portal’s edge, I sat a spell,
For front my eyes, world turned to hell.
Clocktower bells rang out death knells,
Mixed metaphor with sulphured smells.

A lock released, an op'ning door;
Followed by sounds I can't ignore
As I walked home amid the storm,
of echoed feet, I thought once more.


What harkened there, shadowed so?
It made no noise; I didn't know.
and so my steps fell soft as snow,          
heard silence then, and nothing more.

Was it the shopkeep, hidden there?
In darkness deep, 'thought saw his glare
and so I turned, searching, scared.

Nought, I saw, in darkness there

Nought, eyes spied, no shadows spared.

Nought, my cry left my fear bared:

"I face you now, as friend or foe!
Why you hide yours, I do not know."

So still, the shadow stayed its frame..
As if it played a hidden game.
Its outline froze; it seemed so strange,
Besot', I sought the shadow’s name
but to my ears came only rain.

Alas, light passed, lit up the space
where I expected a strange face,
but to my shock, in revealed place
was only water, reflecting face

On puddle’s edge, I searched the grass,
only found water, still as glass
Just as I thought, "This fog won't pass,"
my clouded mind came clear at last.

A calming breeze cleared my mind's haze.
To self, I said, "If blindly brave...
I'll sell tomorrow to yesterday,
risk retrospect of future fate."


Thus I thought a tale would end,
The book, or life? I can't portend.
Post-curse, I'm worse for wear, my friend!
Now words alone don’t serve to mend.

I turned a page into the book,
and as before, my hands, they shook,
The leaves were blank! Was I mistook?

No words were writ, the pages, bare.

No words to read, no lines to share.

No words to see, then one appeared!

A balked belief, before my eyes
That ghost-writ word was leading lines!

and so I read,  still scanning script
'scarce skipping stanzas, none I missed.
I turned more pages, teeth a’grit...
Falt’ring, failing to feel my  fits.                                            
I couldn’t stop; cease reading it                

Alas, time passed, still keeping speed
words filled white pages, enrapt I read
How does this work? What’s it all mean?                  
Why was the cursive cursing me?

On pages’ end, the words did seem  
a lifetime writ, for all to read          
Right from the start, text taunted me    
divined a doom, a destiny

Its pox perceived, print paper flat
I begged the book to take it back    
"Who’s words were those? Who’s fate is that?
Who’s life and death, in white and black?"


Delving deeper desperately
For I felt my future had passed, you see
Living life so longingly
Fearing fated folly, unfortunately.

As I read the book, I took
My final form, ‘spite balance shook.
Lapse living lie; won’t die a crook!

I blinked, unlinked, to weaker chain

I shrinked, to think, of lesser gain

I winked, on brinks, but not insane

So now, my friend, I’ll pen some prose
Dream up new lines; make up new words

Where once I thought that what was writ’
The rise and fall, all of it
Could not be altered, not one bit.
As if in stone, the letters sit!
Lines laying law, commanding it!

But now I face what fate comes forth
Leaving letters forming words with worth
My written rhymes give gallant girth
They sing a ballad; but say one verse.

I put down past, but faced it first
In breaking down, I found what works
I fixed my fate, and shed the curse,
Better for me, but for you, much worse.

The book, this poem share a name.
I thought that fact would make it plain
These wicked words hid horrid hex
now you can’t flee, for you are next!