Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Pauline Morris Feb 2016
He sat all alone at home
There was no where to roam
Even on this holiday
All his family had passed away
His ex-wife and kids where in a different state
There was nothing for him to celebrate
Life had left him with an empty plate
He was trying hard to stay away from deaths gate

He sat there trying to watch on tv some shows
Only commercials of happy families, that's just the way it goes
He set's there reliving happier memories
Then looked around at his empty house of misery

A call from his kids
Sent him into a skid
Made him relive their younger years
He was so glad they couldn't see his tears
He did have a small smile as they talked
But like anything the call to soon came to an end, it stopped

The heart piercing whimper that acrossed his lips seep
Would of made the coldest hearted person weep
He just sat there with eyes red with the pain
Knowing all he had lost, not seeing anything left to gain

The agony of his memories played in his mind
Desperately wishing he could go back in time
So he could fix it all, make it all rhyme
For this mountain of lonely misery, he just couldn't climb

As others enjoy their families, with good food and cheer
You will find him setting there with his cans of beer
Trying to drown his sorrow, amplified by this holiday of thanks giving
Wishing that instead of dying inside, he was living
Charlotte Huston Dec 2015
In the darkest of our valleys
    By dark angels demented,
‘Twas once a regal temple -
    Serene spring - tauntingly tormented.
A Queen in her Domain,
    It stood there!
Under Lock and Chain;
    A maiden so fair!


Lavender curtains laden;
    On this Temple may flow
Along the Times of this Maiden -
    In the ****** snow.
And every gentle air in that field,
    Of Doomsday,
From the Black Rose’s shield -
    Their aroma passed away.


Witnessing this Ominous blolly;
    Through luminous windows -
Spirits sing in melancholy,
    In the malicious meadows.
Upon this throne I bore;
    A tintinnabulation of air -
Befitting glory’s chore,
    Of this realm’s affair.


With many a jewel gleaming,
    Against the Temple door -
The River’s light came beaming,
    Sparkling for evermore.
A troop of Angels; on their duty,
    At my doorbell, sing -
For the Silent beauty,
    Who burdens the King.


Then, the Reaper came,
    Along the Temple’s River -
For the distressed dame;
    And the sorrows within her quiver.
Above this temple of glory,
    Sagacious scenes bloomed -
Of the maiden’s story,
    The clergy that loomed.


Now; Within that valley -
    Through the reddened windows see,
Figures dancing delicately;
    To her disbanded melody.
The river - now a pale white,
    Is her decor,
Night’s sweetest silent fright -
    And flows - Nevermore.
This is based on "The Haunted Palace" by Edgar Allan Poe, although Poe told the story of a king who eventually met his demise, his castle eventually becoming haunted by the phantoms of his family.

Instead, I told the story of a woman who locked herself away from society - and speaks of how the outside world seems to her.
He didn't want one at all.
His parents told him he needed one.
His friends told him he never had one.
"A lover?" he chuckles, "I abolish the siren's call!"

Years pass.
He lives on entertainment and work alone.
One day, he witnesses a theft; he thinks it crass.
A pursuit begins and into the skies, how high he has flown.
He nabs the thief, retrieves the pearl, and to the girl he doth go.
Reclaiming the treasure, her eyes alight, she delights in the victory.
"Thank you!" away she walks, tears from her eyes flow.
He knows not her name, or the nature of the game's history.

Days bass by.
He remembers the smile, the warmth of her heart, the passion.
He packs his things: home, family, work, friends, "Goodbye!"
He tracks her down, "I brought you honor," he's not done,
"Lady, I will bring you love every day, every hour, every moment,
If you but make me feel as you did before!"
Has a man ever before made this promise? She muses of endearment.
"I know not what I did, not that it matters anymore,
For what you have said, in my heart, has opened a door."

That feeling again! What feeling was this?
An agent of bliss? A love carrier's kiss...
He would not abandon her,
Lest things return to what they were.

The first year was quiet, riddled with passion,
Love-making, for each day, there was a limitless ration.
Yet a simmering day, cooking chaos and infamy,
Out of it was born a crook dripping with villainy.
He named himself... "Brute"
He thinks death is loot.
He collects it like a farmer consuming every shoot, every root.

Our hero did sense this, somehow he knew.
"What ails you?" she asks, "Just give me a clue."
"Our love is still strong," he notes, "But arounds us brews a bitter stew."
"What can be done?" she asks, "What must you do?"
"I must survey the lands, back to the place where I flew."
"My pearl, take it, if you die, I will mean nothing."
"Your pearl? For me? Surely not! A lie, you're bluffing."
"Take it my love, and remember me always,
When your heart aches, remember these good days."

He sighs and takes it, kisses her and flies,
There is one he will refuse to permit goodbyes.

Above the land he saw it, but his heart stopped short,
Because of dastardly things seen, horrors to report!
"No..." he moans, "Not on my watch!"
The villain had found his woman, a beauty to botch.

He flew down to their nest,
Clutching the pearl at her behest,
The clouds distorted his view,
Through them he aggressively flew,
But,
Before he could stop the end of this land,
Brute accomplished what he has planned.
"Love is no more! You were too slow to matter,
I'll drop her withered body! Hear her bones clatter..."
The hero sees the deed, but he understood her words,
Now that he has a piece of her, he can move onwards.

"Your villainy is strong, but you have not tempered destruction,
For you will soon meet, the power of my instruction."
Brute raised an eyebrow in amusement,
Is this man a cow? For I shall milk him into entombment!
His deathly gaze steady, the villain prepared his onslaught,
But our hero inhaled the clouds themselves, disturbing nature not,
"Clean up your mess Anthony, and never do this again!"
Hearing the voice of his long dead mother, Anthony, (Brute not),
Did as he was told never approaching another sin.

Our hero knelt beside the remains of his lover,
He let his tears wash her bones, for he loved her like no other.
He took the pearl that she had given him,
Pressed it into her skeletal palm on a whim.
Lo and behold!
Life seized her corpse like a gust of wind.
Embracing each other, true love they uphold.
Through them, again, the human race may begin.

Revolutions are born of feverish desire.
Charlotte Huston Nov 2015
O! - Nothing earthly is the dying day,
When I meet death's decay!
Far from your love on Heaven's coast -
Thy guardian ghost,
Ripped from your arms,
And ringing Death's fire alarms.

And I shall rest a white hand -
Upon thy brow,
During thy sobbing grand,
And who is happy now?

Once I finally fly -
Shall I find you in the sky?
Across Love's sea?
And into the night with me -
O, blessed is she.

Across Winter's grip,
Past Serenity Spring,
When the Summer showers drip -
Shall I hear Autumn sing?

And I shall rest a white hand -
Upon thy funeral gown,
During thy sobbing grand,
For I am happy now.

Once I finally fly -
Shall I find you in the sky?
Across Love's sea?
Where we can be thine and thee -
O, blessed is she.

Sorrow alights she -
Weary from the death of me.
Nodding, napping, at her desk of yore,
After my parting days,
Prodding, trapping! - Her taunting chore,
Mourning's craze.

Once I finally fly -
Shall the heavens hear thee cry?
Across Love's sea,
Where sorrow shall be.
O, blessed is she.
What? I don't even... Inspired by "Oil and Water" by Lights.
Charlotte Huston Nov 2015
She
SHE rose to his towering rule,
The plaything of his life -
Love's rusting tool,
Of husband and wife.

She hath paid her heart's due -
Once struck by Death's love bow,
Her senses laid few,
Far from what she used to know.
Her heart lays upon Death's trail,
Bleeding endless waves -
Forevermore without fail,
Until she meets the graves.

Love she missed in the new day,
Of glorious awe -
Under the showers of May,
Her beating heart still raw.

Unmentioned tensions galore,
In that home just down the road,
The marriage they both bore -
Where blood soon flowed.

Alas, the man's mind!
Possessed was he,
By Death's kind -
To forever torment she.

Bleak stormy dreary eve,
Where an ominous draft -
Set Death's yarn to weave,
Death's conniving craft.

Spirits had swallowed he,
Consuming his soul -
And burdening she,
So the funeral bells may toll.

This phantasm he may abide,
Love's ending scythe -
Against her butchered hide,
The forces Death may writhe.

And behind that home,
Just down the little road -
The blood may roam,
For the marriage she abode.
Bjørn O Holter Apr 2014
Between the rocks beneath a mountain
the calmest dark upon her chest
where eyes don't stare or fingers grasp
the sleeping queen, she rests.

"Oh, to be found in the shadows
by a prince of unknown grace.
To be taken to his castle
with the sun upon my face.

"Perhaps a farmer or a youth
then cleaned by ***** hands
and brought as a gift of wonder and awe
to a love in humbler lands.

"Perhaps an artist, -a troubled one
whose craft is life and duty.
Whose heart is filled with heavy burdens
and art is filled with beauty".

Tectonic plates, they rumble
she gives a lazy yawn
as a glimpse of light now reaches in
to reveal the naked dawn.

And with the dawn an arm extends
to lift her from her bed.
The bony fingers carry gently
the queen that never wed.

"Perhaps an unlucky homeless man
whose clothes are rags and tatters.
Whose sole possession is me, a diamond,
and I'll be all that matter".

In a village in the deepest jungle
a travler finds a treasure
in the hand of a homeless man
beyond all Earthly meassure.

He says: "Do you know what that rock is worth?"
The homeless says: "I can't,
I lost my sight in the war, you see
but she feels good in my hand".

And he worshipped her all his days
untill he passed away
and in his humble will he asked
she be placed in his grave.

Still she dreams, that sleeping queen
of princes, farmers and artisans.
But she always shines her brightest
when she dreams of the homeless man.
unedited, I'll get back to it later...

— The End —