#poe
From creation’s fire—
flying higher and higher—
on currents of invention—
literary Lazarus in ascension—
firebird burning bright
across the endless night,
creating evermore—
a far-off, lonely shore.
Apr 25
Apr 25, 2026 at 9:52 AM UTC
by GodGivenGonzo on September 10, 2017. © Frederika Bimal, All rights reserved.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AjNoSwKjTnQ&t=2s
Whilst skulking in my bed feeling more than one half dead
in the deep of rem provided where down comforters resided
rested thoughts of dread I heavily bore
in between the realms where reality underwhelms
I hear a buzzing from the lofty helm scurrying upon the floor
lights flickened to mended beams while the buzzing began to increase
a text it seemed to be for me in such woe I am sure
Unwarranted and unkindly rest had suddenly found me finally to the rift I drifted blindly
blind to the stains of pain on my plain linen décor
I blankly replied without typing since surely, I'd only be griping so enraged my sorrow tightens and tightened my core
still no sound was heard abound except more buzzing to be found
a text from no one special of this I am sure
fall asleep to spy a peep of who I loved before
Tightened my grip onto her ether
realized I could not be there for any longer than a waking roar
a jarring snore turned a grumble
I decided awake was too much trouble
as a rumble emanated from a closed dresser drawer
wide eyed I'd pounced
blood boiling building anger by the ounce
"Would you cease this confounded sound! Lest my sanity restore!
Idle wise I idolize the meek and mild to weak and wise but on this crescent moon so high I'm needed skulking sore."
Wrenched that day one's heart did stay as I stuttered out some calming lore
no longer did I ponder in a grief that continued to bother
the name familiar somber thoughts of my lover adored
Impossible to be, be it karma, history or fate
follow destiny she did so happily into an early grave
crossed lines and wires hid my desire to believe there was an encore
to sleep per chance to dream of her
together forevermore
A simple plan to execute but when said aloud pride will refute
and decide pomp and circumstance denying myself the gore
wearily inept I slumped as I crept towards a fatal jump numb as I breached the border crossing the window like a door
in one side and out the other to reunite us with one another
no longer will I slumber to see who I was living for
bright eyed I smile ending myself imposed exile she shows me what's worthwhile and what's not anymore
I made the right decision
of this I am sure
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 12:00 PM UTC
olden cobblestones whisper amiss-
alas! a "hello" blossoms
at midnight's kiss from the shadows
lanterns adorn the darkened way
as carriage & horse make haste
fog chokes out the oxygen
playing tricks on the eyes & mind
a new moon gives birth to new starlight
the cello & violin strings bleed for you
halfnaked & alone in a gutter of
shivering rain, ballots for *****
pneumonia knocking on the door
of his silent battle of addiction
the decay of his dissention
the unraveling of the psyche
the rain & the cold rippled to your spine
shivering like a newborn baby
afraid of laughter
ophelia drowns you in the ocean
tide of her own tears
delirium tremens-no one can hear the silent scream inside your head
Mar 26
Mar 26, 2026 at 6:16 AM UTC
I dare the irreverence to bite.
Dark Revenant hollowed heart
BE GONE.
It won’t be long -
I know who and where my home lies
so pack up the deceit -
take elsewhere a seat!
I See you in the dark wires wound.
I see that imp hiding in the baby’s room,
I see it lacing its path with Doom and Gloom.
Ardent heart and Hardened soul,
No malice there to take its toll.
I see the bells that chime -
I can tell the time, but I am no God.
He created the time,
Man created the clock,
Man thinks he is The Almighty
because he controls what is before him
Woman, The wisdom kin, the help mate.
The decider and fate.
Destiny breathes with hope in her teeth,
Chewing at sound of defeat.
If you stop at hope and don’t climb the rope
the wells of despair will yank.
Your energy may tank.
You will fall if you never brick it into Faith.
Certainty of heart,
Ardent and constant prayer
when winds of change blow cold.
The Holy Spirit gives the grace and mercy,
never growing old -
gives you arms that HOLD.
The Son who sacrificed himself for ME,
and YOU, and everyone between,
Brings relief then you will cease to grieve
You have to search for the dawn
coming, cresting.
You have to find stillness
before you discover resting.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 2:05 PM UTC
On a morning merry, of the merry sun, I was awakened all of a sudden,
for there came a rapping noise, not once but thrice,
rapping-tapping of a native knuckle, outside my orchard fence,
thus in a question of 'what' I bustled, rustled past my window lace,
there was a bird, the raven's cousin,
a crow on my orchard fence.
I flinched from the window, and opened my door,
and asked the crow, perched on the fence, me before,
"what shalt thy name be? for the peasantly bird, thou seem to me,
who had a peasantly flight past the neighbour's flower-mess. "
for t'was not the raven knowing that single word, but a crow who may speak something else
quoth the crow "Nevermore, Nevertheless..."
Jan 29
Jan 29, 2026 at 5:31 AM UTC
You were created to ****
I was Killed to create
This - caught between our chests -
Now, Still rested by fate
As our souls wait - and breath - Abate
We cast these stones - At each other's feet
We each take part - in this construct
Each side our own - Ye, Defeat
Yet - Take this heart - Before we again -
SELF-DESTRUCT
You killed the concience
I created little souls
You created catastrophy
I killed fears toll
You speared carrions
I constructed dreams
We shared moments
In the schemes
Within the Between
Between the glares
Between our words
Before the pages dark and bold
Between the ages of sages - untold
Between the table and dice at play
I found a man I would love - til the grave
Yet I fear beyond fear and hope beyond hope
That he loves me and keeps me - even if only as slave
I care not in what manner you speak
If like kisses like lilac or sharp like raven beak
All I know is you are the rope
The one that I climb out of the dark with
You are the hope that loosed the knot
You are the best way to cope
You are everything...That I am not.
But most of all
At the end of this fall
I am so happy for the trip that we had
I will take you at your best - Good with the Bad
I am so sorry for the words thrown like ache
That got stuck in some ice riddled lake
I am sorry for the times that I walked
I am sorry for the times I couldn't talk
Or the times I carry on
Like that wistful whistling song
Trapped in your heart
When the night grows too long
You are the words to every poem I wrote
You are the song with no final note
You are the moment I was found
I want to be your coat
I wish to be your shelter from storms
I need to be by your side
I am the cool to your stride
Thank you, My Kith, My Kin
My Kaynine - and Fae
The dark elf girl
Who cackles through the smoke
You. Are. My. World.
Jan 15
Jan 15, 2026 at 1:37 AM UTC
Misery hates company
We were always lied to
From the shores of Tuscany
To the great beast Patu
From sea to shining sea
Beyond what others ache or need
From every depth of me
I want to plant the seed
"I am afraid of judging eyes"
The first poem that was mine
Much to everyone's surprise
My heart still beats just fine
Lost among the roses - tall
That turned a shade of blood
Blackened by the grief of all
When my heart was but a bud
The ache I feel every morning
Reminds me I still live
While my eyes are storming
This graceless heart I give
A sweetest of surrender
Pouring out more of myself
My mind thrown in a blender
A soul trapped on the bookshelf
Stuck always between the lines
of imagery and forlorn words
Blurring lies with "I'm Fine"
This heart is for the birds.
Jan 7
Jan 7, 2026 at 5:50 PM UTC
Old proclivities breathing into old predilections
Removing the shadows of aching heart
Old habits forming back like wicked infections
Haunted heads breeding hate in part
Holding onto harrowing hills that dwell within my dreams
You will never find yourself in among the few.
Holding Hope is having heartache dressing up your schemes
If you never build upon it into something new
Dealing with shadowed recesses - lost in my reverie
I had a father once - sisters many - a daughter and my sons
These is my lost Lenore dancing in misery
This is the consolation - prize my heart has won
Sorrows many and fear so deep
That steals me away
Plaguing all I ever loved
Taking my peace to keep
And a nod to my "dad"
That I never really had -
Is all I ever loved - A mere dream within a dream?
Jan 7
Jan 7, 2026 at 4:05 PM UTC
DANASH MARX KRAFTSMAN III
The Knight, She calls me –
The Nightingale, She calls Us.
The Raven - It causes me –
To Cry out – Evermore!
Oh My Lost Love – Are you lost to me -
Evermore
Taken - No Whisked away - to settle a score
Beneath the only honest moon
Harvest Red, a child gone too soon
Rachel cries out in the streets
Echoing reminders of little feet
Running on my kitchen floor
This – My heart – MY lost Lenore
My pain
Evermore
Thus – My heart – Shattered
Perhaps on some far plutonian shore
Where the raven’s beak – kisses
Me soft, Like a tapping or a rapping – upon my door.
Or a window lattice
The only sound-
Evermore!
You my father –
Poetry
A muse forever dark.
Melody -
My mother
Lit an eternal Spark
David with his Laments
And Solomon with his Keys
Everything I ever wanted
Was to please – THEE.
Therefore-
ever-more
Father, Son, and Breath of Life,
Spirit - Holy - That soothes my mind run rife
The Father, Jehovah, Yaweh, Alpha and Omega -
Thank you - You tell me of my life and heart
You keep me from falling completely apart
Jesus Christ, My Lord and Savior
Keeps me out of mortal danger
He holds me close by His side
whenever I feel the need to hide
Evermore.
Evermore
Evermore
I am healed.
I can feel
I will be elated
I will not be jaded
I will find a new ground to break
I will hold the smile I was going to fake
I will let the mask drop at will
I have always been a Christian, and I love God still
Evermore
He loves me
Evermore
He'll hold me
Evermore
He lets me see
Evermore
Evermore
Ever...More...
Dec 27, 2025
Dec 27, 2025 at 4:41 AM UTC
I close my eyes to nothing
A dreary darkness holds me until
I find myself falling into the distance beneath
Falling into the chasms of broken hopes and dreams
Falling into nowhere
Until I have lost touch with reality
Until my whereabouts are disconnected
Torn into shreds of existence, where no one may locate them again
Until I feel that I stop
Stop in the middle still floating into the inky black of the chasms that endeth not
Stopped at the very fabric of a world we live in
Completely stopped
Until I see shapes
Iridescent triangle and out of these mere triangles more come out
Until they become kite shaped
Of the deepest hues of black and white
Circling me surrounding me
Suffocating me
Until they then knock some common sense into me
I float there and realize
Like a stationary doll that has unwinded its troubles into the owner
Like hamster that lay there defenseless from the predator
Useless in all realization
It is then and only then, I find myself what fear really is
It is simple
You are not scared of the dark nor of creepy white being that haunt our lives named ghosts
No, you are not
You are scared of the moment when you realize your fear is there
Living with you, breathing with you
Yes, the moment you realize
That is what you truly fear
That is what I happen so to realize in that very moment
As I lay there floating
Floating in a world of white and black diamonds
Circling you, surrounding you
Suffocating you
Realization lies there waiting for your presence
It lies there stealthily
Biding time as it is
I soon find myself regaining simple cultures of the past that had been taught to me
Began to sit upright, folding my hands in my lap
Staring into the face of precisely what fear accommodates
The thing that has been established by many
But many have gone insane after addressing the true fact of the existence of fear
Though I am not here to tell you the sorrowful tales of such
I am not here to recite the journeys of others
And of those did not go insane at the thought of such revelations
Stand tall in front of it
But they cannot hide it forever
Until they cower back, seemingly shrinking in size
Because no one lives without fear
Therefore no one lives without realization
Therefore no one lives while glaring realization in the eye
Not because of ****** that they cease to live
Realization itself does not admit to killing these innocent beings
No, they **** themselves
They realize their dangerous feat and therefore cannot bear the realization
They have always been frightened of realization
But to realize that one is challenging it
Is the fate of the brave
‘Tis not why here I am
Telling you this tale of valor and possible stupidity
Alas, I’ve strayed off the point
Distracted in perils before us, any of us in fact
As I fixated my eyes on the perfect form of realization I seem to realize what others perished to
They also could have died by the next processes as your brain begins to comprehend
Questions that is
Many, many, many, oh so many questions
Popping into your noggin
Or perhaps your heart
l bet l could find them in your stomach
Everywhere and anywhere, not just your usual questions
But they were different
Very, very different
Not slightly different because l can’t tell if l have made this clear enough
But they are very different
Is this really real, or is it an optical illusion?
Am l living in a hallucination?
Could everything be a figment of my imagination?
Are people really there, or am l mentally ill?
Do I really see things, or could l be imagining them as if l am blind?
Is this really real, or is it an optical illusion?
Questions of the end of the world these are
Namely the last one
“Is this really real, or is it an optical illusion?”
Dec 4, 2025
Dec 4, 2025 at 9:18 PM UTC
Poe loved to whittle a spell of
anna belly, the belly dancer
she was a wiggler
quite the prancer
free to lose himself in the knell of
anna belly, the belly dancer
free to find her and to lose her
a free source of motivation in her
his poetry won her, heard tell of
anna belly, the belly dancer
an anointment with ink over her
an ointment he needed after
running his nib hard in the dell of
anna belly, the belly dancer
invisible inked blood from his finger
and a Van Gogh-ish vanishing act by her
Dec 3, 2025
Dec 3, 2025 at 1:52 PM UTC
LITTLE RED RETOLD:
I walk slowly through the city park, eyes glued on my shoes. My mind screaming at me to throw the backpack and never go back to Grandma's.
"SHE - IS - SO - MEAN"
I think out loud mean comes out as a gutteral snarl -
One tear stains my cheek.
"I- I...think I turned thirteen today. Or was it yesterday? Whatever. That doesn't matter now." my voice echoes in my head and reverberates between my ears.
My name was Emily on my birthday cake last year it was pink butter cream frosting letters that Mom licked off her thumb when she thought I wasn’t looking.
Nothing tastes the same to me anymore. Everything seems grey. I don't know who that girl - the one that tells Mom I hate her - I don't know who that is.
Now, my favorite hoodie - the hoodie Mom bought me at the mall a few months ago is two sizes too big and smells like the weird tea Grandma made me drink all summer.
It tasted like stale almonds. Each swallow made me gag. That ugly black tea - the one that tasted like melted batteries and cough drops.
The hood stays up because I am SO cold - even though its June 17th.
I chew on my hoodie string and the backpack laden with grandma's groceries hurts my back. People get freaked when they see my eyes these days. Like I will bite them or something.
It gets scary in my head, like really dark in here. The echo's from the shadow on my wall almost howl. It sounds like two reels' audios play at once inside my head and neither will pause all -the - TIME!
One is me.. or at least I think it is...The other ones - I don't know anymore - they growl, or they rasp and claw their way out of my mouth. Something else - a small voice - that seems so loud - A ROAR
"RUN TO HIM - Run to Mr. Wolfe"
The grey haired man sits on a bench, I meet his gaze and he smiles. His teeth look too sharp now- His eyes look like they know me too much - I don't like him much anymore, but I don't know why - but I want to trust him. He is sixty maybe, he seems like a gentle quiet person. He always gave me a cocoa when we played chess in the park last fall - it was warm and sweet like his eyes.
His coat sleeves tremble as I walk by and he stares into my soul as I pass. I stick my tongue out at him and keep walking with my hoodie pulled a little tighter. "Why did I do that? He was my friend..once." I murmer outloud quietly. I wipe my tears with the sleeve of my hoodie. His EYES they are bright like the moon on harvest. They are so SCARY to me now. The hair over his ears chaotically stick up, it looks goofy to me.
He’s the only one who ever noticed when I stopped laughing at my own jokes. We used to play chess every Friday at the park. Now he looks at me like he would rather **** me than talk to me. My therapist says that's just my head playing tricks.
I hear my voice echo in my skull “He’ll smell the tea, he’ll know Grandma tied something bad to my heartbeat, he’ll yank it out before it finishes eating me.” I want to drop my phone, sprint across the concrete, crash into him and whisper, “I’m still the girl who played chess in the park, The one you taught division to- please -Help me - please- SAVE ME!”
That other weird audio drops harder, glitchy, bleeding and looping Grandma’s creepy lullaby under a trap beat. It giggles with my voice but older, meaner:
“Why cry, baby? We leveled up.” She loves how the wolf’s shoulders tense when he sees me coming, loves the way my fingers know exactly which pocket holds the “special” brownie bite Grandma baked - the one special for HIM.
“Feed it to him, Give him that treat” the voice purrs, making my tongue feel thick and sweet. “Watch those pretty silver eyes go soft and empty. Then we’ll film it vertical while that Starbucks guy with the man-bun - that dated my momma for a while - laughs. He smiles like AI YouTube ads- and chops down my spirit - every chance he gets...
I stop under the flickering park light that buzzes like a dying fly. My shadow splits in two on the concrete.
Mr. Wolfe stands up slow, hands in pockets, waiting. My hand shakes as it goes for grandma's special "Hush Puppy Brownie" I screams one last raw note nobody else can hear: "I’M STILL A KID PLEASE SAVE ME!" Somehow the man in grey seems to hear it. As if he reads the echo in my mind. I tear up. I feel embarrassed, guilty. He taught me MATH. Fractions, sitting in the church basement for months together, with Max, my older brother, while mom worked late nights at the bar.
The dark voice turns the volume to max, smiles through with MY teeth, and holds out the brownie like it’s just a snack between friends. I fight hard this time.
I fall to my knees instead
"Grandma will be mad! She - She will be mad at me- about the mud stains on my new jeans" that voice hisses, out of my mouth in frustration.
My hands in my hair, pulling it.
"MAKE IT STOP" I cry out.
The 'treat' fell to the ground. into a mud puddle. In a moment where everything got a little clearer, I spit on it and looked up at the man who was closer now, had his head tilted at me, curious. That venomous voice snakes around - angered by me not listening again.
“Grandma’s waiting,” both voices say through my head, perfectly synced, sugar-rotten and ice-cold. I look up at Mr. Wolfe, he is standing right in front of me now. He offers me his hand, and helps me up.
"Sweet child, you can make it stop just by cleansing your heart, mind and soul! I could teach you how Let's play a game of chess and talk this all out." He offers me a lolli-pop. A grape dum-dum. My favorite. I walk slowly toward my grandmothers instead - He stops me again.
"Mr. Wolfe I- really- I am sorry but don't have time for chess today - I - I really have to get to grandma's house before dark --" I stutter, feeling cold again.
"Emily - You haven't been back to the church group! Lets just play a quick game - Then you can go." Mr. Wolfe's voice cuts through the noise in my head for a second.
The voice up there hisses "NO - NO - NOOO WE CAN'T LET HIM TALK TO HER" It echoes in my grandmother's voice - Like the day she found out I was at a church group after school - I guess she knows Mr. Wolfe. The arguing in my head gets louder.
Mr. Wolfe gently puts a hand on my shoulder "I know your grandma is mean to you Emily, How bout this - I call a friend of mine - and we can wait here - and you can talk to them!" He smiles a truly genuine warm smile.
I nod - sad and scared.
I talked to his friend that I guess was some kind of detective.
Two days later - Grandma went to prison for trying to poison me with words and her tea.
I went to the hospital - the whole time - Momma and Mr. Wolfe held my hands -
The woodsman that hurt grandma and me - was arrested too.
He had pictures on his phone that were bad I don't remember any pictures - only the tea...then nothing.
But - that is all over now, thanks to Mr. Wolfe, and the telling the truth - I feel safe now.
Thank God.
I can breathe again, and think again.
I can smile again.
THE END
Nov 24, 2025
Nov 24, 2025 at 6:52 PM UTC
You would constantly tie yourself up and follow him with sly and conniving methods, and you would shout - if possible - at the wall of empty hopes, while you would concrete yourself into a shell-silence; your soul-stones, like Sisyphus, are pulled down more and more perversely every day. Deep in your soul, your aborted, non-existent possibilities are opened and pushed; Existence weaves together executioner and prey in the same way.
Have you counted in yourself how much your stage-frightening loser-tumbles are really worth, with which you struggle for decades, like a robbed swindler who has squandered his own fortune. Crazy, obsessive propaganda leads you through leashes into the swamps of increasingly uncertain tomorrows. On your silent mouth - no matter how you want it - a permanent fog-gloom perches like a black raven.
A stamp slaps your furrowed-stubble face. The World rolls ever more distorted, meaningless self-candidates towards you. The remaining, small self-awareness is already deliberately killing you; just try to wait until only you can have a roasted pigeon-laurel here. Your own silence is becoming more and more painful, because for a long time you have had no one to whom you could confess the forgotten laws of human humanity.
Every day, so-called pious adolescent thieves steal, who are all now pillar members of another donkey generation, Your own friends are also increasingly suspiciously watching you, because secretly - perhaps - humility has become a traitor in you, and so has the merit, which - back then - it would have been better to have quietly slipped away.
Jackal-stars are all laughing at you if you stand in line at the corner convenience store for a few jampec-pernahajder. - Outside, it seems like it's constantly unfriendly, even those who are completely alien to any sense of community would get mixed up in the chaos of rebellion.
Nov 22, 2025
Nov 22, 2025 at 2:17 AM UTC
A soft, muted and mournful snow fell placidly upon the carved headstones and iron-gated crypts of the Burying Ground at Westminster Church, where the Countess Cynthia Ann and I had come to pay our solemn respects at the tomb of Mr. Edgar Allen Poe. The anniversary of the publication of “Ulalume” was approaching, and the Countess and I felt moved to take the occasion to sojourn to his resting place and offer our admirations and reverent remembrances of our dear friend Eddy, whose preponderance still reverberated through our hearts and minds with a resounding echo.
It was nearly half past ten on a bleak December morning by the time we had arrived in Baltimore by train, and made our way to the stately, brick-walled cemetery on West Fayette Street. Rolling pockets of mist and fog arising from the harbor slowly drifted through the deserted streets as we approached Old Westminster Hall. Stepping through the ornate, wrought iron arch at the entrance to the churchyard, we were engulfed with an overwhelming and bittersweet melancholy, where the profound despair of loss scintillates with a wistful, even intoxicating sense of nostalgia.
As we meandered slowly down the western pathway I ran my fingers over a few of the cold stone slabs and lent my appreciation to the names and dates which had been carefully and lovingly carved into their silent, dreary faces. Patriots, generals, benefactors, and families of high esteem were all interred here, the beloved children of Baltimore who had, in days of yore, gifted strategic victory or humanistic enlightenment to their community and the nation writ large. It was no mistake then, that upon turning left around the rear of the church, we were greeted by the most profoundly inspired monument of them all - that of Poe himself, flanked by the headstones of Virginia and Maria Clemm.
Although my breathing became nearly seized at the sight of Poe’s marble memorial, I rendered a delicate and heartfelt “Hello again Edgar” and in a low hushed voice, the Countess offered “We’ve missed you, old friend”. There we stood, at length as we marvelled at the passage of time, and the events that had unfolded in the years since Poe’s death. We mused with a friendly humor at whether the dastardly events of late would have spurned him towards a deeper madness, a more isolated melancholy, or more likely, both.
After we had fully satisfied our hearts with reminiscences of Poe’s legacy and the personal anecdotes with which we were entwined, we proceeded to accomplish that which was the purpose of our visitation. From the inside pocket of my black overcoat, I produced a bottle of Martell XO cognac and uncorked it. Raising the bottle up against the light wisps of falling snow, I said “We still haven’t forgotten you”. The Countess and I each took several swills from the bottle as we passed it back and forth, enjoying the warmth it provoked in the face and hands.
As a mild tipsiness enveloped her, the Countess let go of my arm and sauntered to a nearby mausoleum, where she reclined in the recess under an arched entryway and out of the falling snow. She quickly became absorbed in reading a copy of The Divine Comedy, which she had brought for entertainment during our travels. Her interests had recently been engulfed in the tales of deathly sojourns and extracorporeal experiences of grief and sorrow. This obsession was made all the more prescient on this day, with our commemoration of Ulalume. She was a voracious reader, a passionate devotee and a gifted practitioner of necromancy, divination and mediumship, and I was enamored by the depths of her dark passions.
The cognac was loosening my inhibitions as well, and I felt a strong surge of emotion welling up inside. As tears streamed down my cheeks, I blabbered out “You lucky ******* The fever called living is conquered at last! And these dear friends are left to suffer the malady in your absence”. After a few moments of indulging my sorrow to outpour unabated, I composed myself and wiped away the tears that had temporarily blurred my vision. I tilted my head upwards to feel the snowflakes fall gently on my face, and the cold winter air caress my skin.
It was here that I happened to glance over to the Countess, where she reposed at the alcove of the crypt. Her back was against the leftward column and her knees were bent, with both feet on the opposite column, off the ground, with the book in her lap. I traced the line of her form, from her thick-soled, tall black boots and the gartered thigh high fishnet stockings that rose high onto her long slender legs. To my extreme delight, I noticed that she wore nothing under the highwaisted, ruffled black mini skirt she wore, and the ruby fullness of her lips showed clearly that she was intensely aroused and in need of gratification.
“My love”, I said with a mischievous grin, as I extended my hand to her, helping her to her feet and guiding her to climb atop an elevated burial slab which was situated nearby. She extended her lace covered arms behind her, planted her hands down into the snow and arched her back to the limits of her satin corset bustier. I slowly guided her lingerie clad, porcelain legs open to reveal her world of pleasure as my mouth reflexively began to salivate.
A heavy blanket of lapping fog rolled through the cemetery as snowflakes delicately licked the silent headstones. Outside the brick wall that encircled the graveyard and in the empty street beyond, the Countesses’ rhythmic moaning crescendoed into an ecstatic ****** of carnal release.
Nov 18, 2025
Nov 18, 2025 at 8:20 PM UTC
The autumn rain is falling
Like teardrops from mine eyes;
I cannot help recalling
With sobs and lingering sighs
My Fugliana.
The days returning never,
The golden days of yore,
I thought would live forever,
Yet gone fornevermore
Is Fugliana.
With rue my heart is laden;
L'amour peut être amer.
Nor any rose-lipt maiden
Was e'er so fair as fair
Fair Fugliana.
Oct 1, 2024
Oct 1, 2024 at 12:08 AM UTC
My rended heart, through anguish shatters fore,
A stone, that sullen weighted spirits hold,
The scattered sands adrift on sorrow’s shore,
Where grieving angel’s mournful bells have tolled.
Uncaring winds have rendered lifeless now,
Whose tenderness imbued thy loving years,
Disjoined of radiance, the broken bough,
Conveyed to rest on waves of weeping tears.
Entombed, abiding silent kirkyard drear,
Whose eyes no longer shine with living flame,
Or consecrate my desperate ears to hear,
Whose voice, now muted memories reclaim.
Where cherished bonds of mortal presence fell,
In silent mourning, solemn sorrows dwell.
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 2:02 PM UTC
The terminal, scintillating amber-golden rays of the western setting sun and their long, heavy, sullen shadows elongated across the soft undulating fields below the imposing, snow-capped southern Carpathian mountains, as our coach meandered along the punctated, uneven path. And in the northeasterly sky, rising with a steady but intoxicated indifference, the scarleted shine of the full blood moon signaled the impending ascendance of twilight and a comforting decrescendo from the exuberance of the day’s revelries.
The day’s festivities had been consumed with the most spectacular and ostentatious indulgences within the citadel at Poenari Castle, where the Voivode of Wallachia, Vlad Tepes himself orchestrated the various features of the bacchanalia. The nature of the celebration was two-fold. The primary focus of adulation was in regards to the upcoming sabbat of Samhain, and the commencement of a three week period of celebratory events to honor the thinning of the veil between the worlds of the living, and that of the dead. The secondary aspect of the merrymaking was much more personally gratifying - a celebration of the recent bestowal of myself and the lady Cynthia Ann with the entitlement of Count and Countess, upon the acquisition of a southward facing hillside parcel of land near Praid, in Hargita County, Transylvania. On this occasion, Tepes demonstrated a particularly affable disposition, having recently expelled the Ottomans from Wallachia, and he was enthusiastically supportive of our acquisition, and of adopting this mysterious and bewitching land as our own. And we were certainly eager to ingratiate ourselves to him, with great hopes of avoiding the same fate as the thousands of enemy soldiers, whose bodies, at the base of the mountain, were impaled onto wooden stakes, in horrifying, grotesque and ungodly configurations, and left to rot and putrify under the harsh elements of the Carpathians.
As we traversed the sublime countryside, the monotone clopping rhythm of the horses pulling from the front lent a hypnotising dissonance to our endeavor, where inside the coach, I sat in contented silence, pondering the myriad events which had recently transpired. My physical body was exhausted from the uproariousness of the day, but my mind was still racing with excitement, reeling from the myriad conversations and exclamatory interactions at the soiree, and of contemplating the exhilarating possibilities which were presenting themselves to the Countess and I in our newfound life and land. With this thrilling cacophony of thoughts and visions reverberating through my mind, I was again, as always, compelled into the more lustful preoccupation upon the beautiful creature I beheld before me.
The Countess Cynthia Ann was by far more taken by the day’s jubilation and was thoroughly consumed by a deep-set tiredness. She rested peacefully, with her body half reclined to her left side in the rear seat of the coach, her head cradled within the folds of the crimson pillowed, velveted lining of the carriage walls. I gazed upon her with a carnal passion, an electric, magnetic and covetous desire, and the profound satisfaction that because she was mine, all of my various sensual appetites and ****** desires would be, one by one, fulfilled at length.
Her eyes remained softly closed as I indulged my ravenous vision to engorge myself with all the sensuousness that lay before me.
The net stockings that gripped her legs, which were visible from above the top of the tall, black leather boots that reached almost unto her knees, stretched higher on her thighs, to where they were encircled by a red lace band which itself disappeared under the rufflements of her gown, which was markedly shorter in the front than to behind. I stared with a desirous and hungry gaze, lusting over the contours of her legs, and filled with the titillating perception that each small, diamond shaped hole in her stockings was itself a window unto the soft, porcelain skin which laid beneath. Had it not been for sheer exhaustion, this sight alone would have been enough to pull me straight into eagerly satiating my rapacious urges.
Lifting my gaze slightly, I regarded with great admiration and desire, the corset she wore above her hips. Each and every fine, silver embroidered tracery outlined the underlying whalebone structure within, and produced such an elegant and magnificent pedestal upon which her ******* were the crown. For many dozens of breaths, I watched with an animalistic desire to play ravenous physicality onto her forms, how her chest rose and fell with quiet rhythmicity of slumber, and how the totality of her feminine attributes filled me with an insatiable carnal passion for her intimacy.
Similarly, my eyes journeyed along the lengths of the black lace and sheer gloves that she wore. The fingerless ends of her long and delicate gloves converged over her hands, which had both found a place of rest upon her left thigh. I followed the wider silver laces that zig-zagged up through each and every delicate, light-colored grommet, over and above her elbows and ending in a slightly thicker band of floral garter which supported them before reaching the shoulders.
Here, my eyes followed the lines of the two straps that crossed just below her collar bones as they found their attachment into a black velvet choker that encircled her neck. Naturally, I was then drawn to derive a burning adoration as I marveled at the long, straight strands of chestnut brown hair that flowed like a waterfall from the apex of her head into a curtain of soft filaments that draped delicately across her shoulders. Resting there, slightly above the top of her forehead, was a black wire tiara, dotted with amethyst, garnet and a thin silver line of embellishment along the frame. And, as if promulgated by the corona itself, filling the interior of the coach was the subtle but distinctive scent of thyme and artemisia that wafted from her hair and filled my soul with such a soothing, warm comfort, that even consumption of the finest absinthium spirits could not provide such profound solace. Her canine familiar, our robust and golden cocker spaniel, laid longways on the tufted seat to her right, and with a heavy drowsiness, rested his head upon her hip, as they both were gently jostled by the unremitting protuberances of the trail.
In this glorious moment, I was thoroughly contented and satisfied to have been given the blessed opportunity to gaze longingly upon the Countess, my loving and beautiful bride, while my mind again drifted into the fancies and possibilities which lay before us, where of most urgency and gratification, was to embark upon developing the small protectorate which we had established, here in Transylvania. And as my eyes fell shut with a heavy sluggishness, I could nearly feel the cool, moist grit of the Transylvanian soil between my fingers, and the sweet, earthen smell of petrichor lulled me deeper into the entrancing spell of our newfound home.
Oct 9, 2025
Oct 9, 2025 at 2:43 PM UTC
Bound in blessings with the Left -
Brother Left!
Joined in patriotic love of country - fellow man!
How we quarrel, quarrel, quarrel,
In pursuit of governing!
Stars and stripes define our kinship,
Coupled by our common heirship
Providential comforting;
Striving on, on, on,
In the stately pantheon,
And respectful competition of opinions coalesced
From the Left, Left, Left, Left,
Left, Left, Left -
From the striving and reviving of the Left.
Hear the agitating Left,
Fearful Left!
Having aspirations of equality expressed!
Notions quite inferior -
Vaunting ours - superior!
From the birth of modern man
The crown is ours.
God-anointed master plan
Grants the bounty to the chosen ruling clan -
Avatars!
Rightful is our point of view!
Such a farce to claim equivalence in detinue!
How undue!
How untrue!
Parity!?! They misconstrue!
Toleration? We eschew -
And the thieving, and deceiving
Of the Left, Left, Left,
Of the Left, Left, Left, Left,
Left, Left, Left -
To the squeaking and the shrieking of the Left!
Hear the loud and loathsome Left -
Traitor Left!
Behold their filthy claims of equity expressed!
Speaking for their people now,
In a gruesome, ghastly growl!
Bellowing their heresies,
From their foul vicinities,
Blasphemies!
All the voices tell me that the Left is savage and insane,
All the faces sell me feelings of derision and disdain,
Ceaseless refrain, refrain, refrain,
Feed the chorus to sustain
That which makes me feel exceptional,
Castigating as contemptible,
Anyone with views apart from mine.
Oh, the Left, Left! Left!
Inhumane and demonized,
Reviled!
How they dream, and scream, and scheme!
How could anyone oppose
Righteous, pure and godly promulgated truth?
Yet the chosen few persist,
Through the gnashing,
And the thrashing,
‘Owning Libs’ is sacrosanct;
Even though the mirror shows,
The heaving,
And the seething.
And the cowardice repeating,
Of the spinelessness - projected on the Left—
On the Left—
On the Left, Left, Left, Left,
Left, Left, Left—
In the droning and the groaning of the Left!
Hear the venom of the Left -
Evil Left!
Claiming equity of those awash in melanin!
Fetid fiends of arrogance,
Threatening our dominance,
Damaging hegemony,
Weakening supremacy,
Of the righteous, rightful heirs of kingdom come!
The heresies that they espouse,
Causes panic to arouse;
Evilness!
Oh! These wicked, loathsome creatures,
WIth disgusting, grotesque features;
Vileness!
And their preaching, preaching, preaching,
In their pitched and putrid screeching,
Mutual inclusion teaching!
Oh, what awful, wretched swine!
Having sold their own humanity
For prolonged insanity!
The fools!
Look at them! It’s not us, not me!
Can’t you see? See!?! See!!!
SEE!
Paranoia on the Left!
How delusional they are,
Maniacal are the Left!
Spying on my ev’ry move!
Telling lies, lies, lies!
Being kind is for the week!,
Tell that to the dreadful Left—
The wretched Left -
Telling lies, lies, lies!
Selfishness in virtue!
Hear the throbbing of the Left -
Of the Left, Left, Left -
Hear the sobbing of the Left;
Telling lies, lies, lies,
And they creep, creep, creep,
Spying on me as I sleep!
Oh! The mania of the Left -
Of the Left, Left, Left -
The hysteria of the Left,
Of the Left, Left, Left, Left -
Left, Left, Left -
And the moaning and the foaming of the Left.
Oct 3, 2025
Oct 3, 2025 at 2:18 PM UTC
“A curse!” my fist upraised in spiteful pain.
Departing country of my birth, upturned
By war, disease. This England, inhumane,
Where all my past and aspirations burned.
West Indies bound, with brothers, to fulfill
Indentured servitude on Nevis land.
Eight years I worked and toiled there until
Emancipation from contract’s command.
But all the while in service to my debt,
I learned of herbs and healing charms and rites,
From African descendants that I met,
Who gave me knowledge under moonlit nights.
The practices and skills I mastered there -
Twas Voodoo that I learned and brought to bear.
Twas Voodoo that I learned and brought to bear,
And practiced healing methods as my trade,
As blowing winds of change were in the air,
When plans to sail to lands anew were made.
St. Mary’s County, Maryland would be
The place where I would strive to build a life
Of quiet service in community
Where tolerance and peace supplanted strife.
I worked the fertile fields with grit and pride
That all my efforts lifted those in need
Through persevering work that dignified
My efforts for the village to succeed.
Despite my earnest struggle to upraise,
Suspicion always seemed to stalk my days.
Suspicion always seemed to stalk my days,
By whispered words or cautious, wary glance.
Though healing practice often won me praise,
My dealings often seemed to feel askance.
The Puritanic disposition here
Would view outsiders with uneasiness.
The nonconformists lived with modest fear
Of retribution for unseemliness.
A delicate relationship maintained
A peace between the members of the church,
And denizens who lived there unconstrained
By dogma, doctrine, or of Christian smirch.
This tenuous existence would unbind
In Sixteen Ninety Seven’s wintertime.
In Sixteen Ninety Seven’s wintertime,
Calamities unfolded in the town.
The first, a death, was thought to be a crime,
A charge of mine would accidentally drown.
Another came of unexpected cold
That set just after Samhain of that year.
It stayed beyond what almanac foretold,
And racked the hearts of men with mortal fear.
An illness plagued the homes of old and young,
Consistently defying scripture’s laws.
As bells of solemn funerary rung,
Their beasts of burden died without a cause.
An icy grip of fear would tribulate,
As anxious Christians sought to obviate.
As anxious Christians sought to obviate
The pestilence that hereupon was set,
They sought official seal to perpetrate
The persecution of suspected threat.
The Council met to hear complaints of those
Affected by suspicious tragedies.
The governor declared a writ to discompose,
Evict the ‘witch’ - the source of maladies.
Expressing reservations, some of them
Suggested much more civil remedy.
But hateful brutes moved swiftly to condemn
What they had judged to be their enemy.
As howling wind and snow befell the night
The mob set out to remedy the blight.
The mob set out to remedy the blight,
That they suspected had to come from me.
A ‘witch’ they claimed, had surely caused their plight,
And only death could end her blaspheme.
No trial, judge or jury sealed my fate
Just superstitious Christians and their fear,
With burning torches lit to conflagrate,
My home, my peace, and make me disappear.
They came for me, encircling my house,
They came for me, when I was warm in bed,
They came for me, as silent as a mouse.
They came for me, in hopes to see me dead.
The flames engulfed my cottage straightaway,
I had but seconds to escape the fray.
I had but seconds to escape the fray,
With nothing but the clothes upon my back,
There into blinding blizzard cast away,
Absconding from unmerciful attack.
I trudged through blinding snows with helplessness,
And found no sheltered harbor to protect
My body, from the tempest’s dreadfulness,
Or soul, that God would surely soon collect.
Exposure quickly forced a quivered breath,
With freezing force that I could not suppress.
Before my body fin’lly froze to death,
I screamed with all my might and forcefulness:
“My wrathful spell, on thee, I appertain!”
“A curse!” my fist upraised in spiteful pain.
Sep 26, 2025
Sep 26, 2025 at 7:55 PM UTC
Ah! It was there, and a lifetime ago,
In that kingdom by the sea,
Our love was unfurled - our own little world,
And you called me Annabel Lee;
We lived and we loved and such passion we shared,
And I showered my love on thee.
We were but children with dreams of our life,
In that kingdom by the sea,
I was your princess and you were my prince,
And you called me Annabel Lee.
We planned our dominion and dreamed of our future -
A future for you and me.
But down came the wind with its icy embrace,
So cold and capriciously;
The clouds that were sent from the angels above,
Were born of their jealousy.
They envied our love and conspired to break
The bonds between you and me.
And so lies my body returning to dust;
The curse of mortality.
But death could not sever the bonds of our love -
United perpetually.
Our souls are a part of each others’, as one,
Just as the salt in the sea,
Or unceasing tide - my darling, my pride,
Will soon be returning to me.
I’ve watched as the decades have taken their toll,
Upon your longevity -
Upon your vitality -
You’ve never abandoned the love for your bride,
So true and so faithfully.
You’ve waited through time to renew our embrace,
So well and so patiently.
By the setting of sun, our two souls will be one,
My love, you’ll be coming to me;
And the dawning of night, will have us reunite,
My love, you’ll be coming to me;
Upon this night-tide, you will be by my side;
This moonlit night - my darling - my love and my pride,
In our sepulchre, there by the sounding sea -
Tonight! - together, blissfully.
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 1:01 PM UTC
Lenore’s Messenger - by D.B. Sullivan
Once upon a mornings’ splendor, youthful hearts so loving, tender,
Bursting joy, a blissful courting, that rivaled the tales of yore.
Angels swoon and praises singing, multitudes of blessings bringing,
High the bells of heaven ringing, ringing, for whom they adore.
Bless’d were we, betroth’d, by Seraph singing for whom they adore.
Grasping love forevermore.
True and pure was our devotion, hearts enraptured with emotion,
Vast and deep, but still the ocean could not hold the love we bore.
Long we yearned for wedded living, youthful souls intent on giving -
Covenants and consecrations, bless’d by God we knelt before.
We upon the hallowed morrow, bless’d as all who’d knelt before,
Shall be wed forevermore.
But the tranquil eve was shattered, when a sudden spasm battered,
Waves of burning, shearing, searing, deeply through my ***** tore.
Retched and tossed about by quaking, all my senses howling, shaking.
Here my chest continued breaking, till I fell upon the floor.
Writhing, retching, convulsating, in a heap upon the floor.
Spat with blood and scarlet gore.
Wailing, I attempted standing, ev’ry ounce of strength demanding.
Agonizing pains and tremors left me prostrate furthermore.
Piercing lights and dreadful flashing, sordid sense of balance crashing,
“Lord above!” I pleaded, gnashing, “Torture!” - I could bear no more!
Left adrift and god forsaken, such that I could bear no more,
Closed my eyes for evermore.
Pallid, pale, my will succumbing, closer to a corpse becoming.
Cataleptic, body rigid, dying, lonesome on the floor.
Feeling now, my soul retreating, rapidly my senses fleeting.
Woeful sobbing, oft repeating,”Save my soul - this prayer implore!”
With the final languid beating, “Guy de Vere!”, this prayer implore.
Stopped at last, and nothing more.
Weeping, mourning, lamentations, solemn, sober incantations,
Chanting dirges, exaltations, grieving, saddened, sorrow o’er,
Sacramental rites to aid in blessing she whom coffin laid in.
Blessings, unto God conveyed, in tolling bells and prayers outpour.
Debonair, this saintly maiden, requiems and prayers outpour.
Tombed in dirt for evermore.
Died in youth, denied of marriage, rendered now by hearsen carriage.
Laid to rest on dreary hillside - foggy, bleak and fodder for -
Root and rot, putrescence creeping, tombstone silent mem’ry keeping.
Ash to ash, eternal sleeping, there reposing furthermore.
Dust to dust with mildew seeping, decomposing furthermore -
With the worms and petrichor.
Wakened to a strange dimension, filled with anxious apprehension.
Conscious now with new awareness, shaken, dazed as ne’er before
Slowly, faculties regaining, as I struggled, vision straining.
Drunken, deathly stupor waning, I perceived what lay before.
Finally composure gaining, now discerned what lay before.
Darkness here and nothing more.
Frightened at this realization, swelling sense of desperation -
I, with dread and trepidation, ventured outward to explore.
Distant rolling thunder crashing, forked and fiery lightning flashing,
Wracked my nerves with savage thrashing, gnashing as I wandered fore.
Feeling deeply disconcerted, anxious as I wandered fore.
Godless night for evermore.
Onward through the tempest tearing, searching for familiar bearing,
Quickly then, I found myself upon a darkened desert shore.
Gazing out, with frenzied feeling, suddenly in horror reeling;
From horizon to horizon - nothing but a ghastly moor.
Nothing seen of soul or structure, desolate this ghastly moor.
Emptiness for evermore.
Cognizant of this damnation, pure and utter isolation -
“God!!” I cried, with consternation, but no answer came before.
Filled with burning desperation, here, I wailed with indignation -
“Why have you abandoned this child upon the Stygian shore!?”
“What great sin would cause thy God to cast me to this stranded shore!?”
Loneliness for evermore.
Longing, and for comfort seeking, no response from God there speaking;
Lightning all around me streaking, agonizing furthermore.
Addled with despair, affliction, at this godly dereliction,
When, a sound, a sudden diction, broke the silence heretofore.
Then, a murmur - plainly, faintly - broke the silence heretofore;
Whispered out my name - “Lenore!”
Stunned to hear the silence broken, startled by the word there spoken;
It delighted my heartbroken soul to hear my name, “Lenore”.
With this whisper disappearing, quickly I betook to peering -
Outward, nothing further hearing, here on this Hadean shore.
Sullen now, with disappointment, here on this Hadean shore.
Silence here and nothing more.
But, again there came a calling, much unto my ears, enthralling.
Only this time sounding wholly more resounding than before.
Steadily, this vocalizing echoed louder, hypnotizing -
With a boundless localizing, was a voice that I adore.
Here upon, I heard the voice of - “Him! My Love Whom I Adore!”
He doth cry my name - “Lenore!”
Discomposure overtook me. “Guy de Vere!” - my wailing shook me
With great agonizing desperation to embrace once more.
"Cursed place of condemnation, stricken, wretched desolation!”
“Unredeemed and lonesome, this deathly estrangement I abhor!”
“Stridently, this awful fateful separation, I abhor!”
Lost in dreams for evermore.
Sinking into woeful sadness and an all consuming madness;
Calling out into the blackness - “Deathly master, I implore!”
“Send this child of woe a yeoman to convey this somber omen!”
Suddenly here flew a raven - with no common mein he bore.
Demon eyes and plumage stately, quite a royal mein he bore.
Croaked and flit and nothing more.
Marveling at his emergence, and conveying sense of urgence -
“Counsel him of this divergence, this great painful message. Soar!”
“OH! My love, no balm shall lift thee. Somber last goodbye I bid thee”.
“Take my cries and render swiftly, bird, from this Stygian shore”.
“Carry now my heart and render tidings from this stranded shore”.
“BIRD! Out from this desert soar!”
“Find my love - alone, aggrieved and anguished, heartbroken and bereaved”.
“Find my love, whom by God deceived, and relay this dreadful lore”.
“OH!, BIRD!, be not thou craven and find him in his mortal haven”.
“Shall we ever clasp? Fly thee raven to he whom I adore” -
“Shall we ever grasp? Fly thee raven to he whom I adore” -
“Tell him sadly - ‘nevermore!’”
Sep 8, 2025
Sep 8, 2025 at 7:15 AM UTC
The Ruins of Whitby Abbey - by D. B. Sullivan
Hear now the tale of this grand and great structure of Whitby by the sea.
Down through the ages this abbey has stood on the cliff on this headland,
Silently watching and looming, its spires and belfries high above,
Over a town of such import that Stoker himself paid a visit.
Gothic, majestic, this beacon of glory entices the darkness.
Haunted by time, and the lashing of wind and the storms of the North Sea,
Whitby and Abbey have weathered the decades and centuries of yore.
Here, at the mouth of the river - the Esk, where it joins to the ocean,
Seafarers sail from the wharf to lands distant and fishing for haddock,
Whaling, and building of ships and the berthing for Earl of Pembroke.
Harkening back to the time of when Oswig was throned in the kingdom,
Land for a convent was sanctioned and deeded in Six Fifty Seven.
Hild was the Abbess who founded the cloister. Monastics there were both
Women and men, an unusual system, but charity and peace,
Virtues she championed, characterized the community at large.
Stories were told of the monks and the nuns and their saintly compassion,
Such that the size of the village kept growing as supplicants arrived,
Seeking a life of devotion and service to God. But tensions were
Mounting and growing between institutions - of Rome and of the Celts,
Each with assertions of how they should promulgate pastoral issues.
Representations of each of the factions convened there at Whitby
Abbey to stake their positions and argue the merit of their views.
This was the Synod of Whitby, and Roman conventions were chosen,
Further cementing the power of Rome in the churches of the land.
Codified rules under Rome was the fate - year Six Hundred Sixty Four.
Tragedy struck then two hundred years later when Vikings invaded.
Pillaged and plundered, the abbey was gutted, abandoned, crumbling,
Desolate, wasting away on the cliff in the harsh elements there.
Not until Normans had conquered the land and regained governance there,
Would our fair abbey become resurrected to prominence again.
Ten Seventy saw a soldier of Norman named Reinfrid visiting
Whitby and Abbey and remnants of structures that long ago were lost.
He was the one who brought forth resurrection and started to rebuild
Chapels and dwellings for monks to be sheltered in, here upon the cliff.
William de Percy ensured that the land would be properly endowed.
Humble beginnings with simple monastical organization
Started the earnest improvement. Development fostered the growth of
Village, society and Benedictine monastics’ hermitage.
Early, the site was adorned with a beautiful Romanesque abbey,
Serving the needs of the monks as they rendered their holy duties there.
Then, in the year of our Lord Twelve and Twenty Five, Gothic rebuilding
Vitalized Whitby with purpose and passion, a captivating sight.
Masons and craftsmen who labored and struggled brought forth upon the hill,
Brilliant workmanship, intricate, stone carving artistry in the
Choir and transepts, the nave and the narthex, the altar and rib vaults.
Stone after stone that was brought to the Abbey was placed higher, higher.
Reaching for Heaven and towering over the waters down below.
Columns and arches of gothic construction were built into the bones.
Vaunted by townsfolk and all in the kingdom, magnificent in its
Grandeur. A Masterpiece rising like God was himself lifting it up.
Up to the sky went the walls of the abbey with spires rising up,
Buttresses flying and tracery gracing the windows and panels.
William the Conqueror pictured together with Jesus and Mary,
Scenes of the scourging and Stations of Cross there in the stained glass windows.
Objects and relics lent rev’rence and sanctification to its soul.
Thriving for centuries, here on this headland, the abbey attracted
Scholars and pilgrims, both laymen and clergy to celebrate their Lord.
Such, was the thriving community, rooted in mutual respect,
Working and striving, affording their neighbors a tranquil way to live,
Here, where the blood of the ancestors seeps into the mudstone shale.
Henry the Eighth was the king who suppressed it in Fifteen Thirty Nine.
Papal authority blocked and dismantled, absorbing all assets
Unto the Crown and the new Church of England for total control of
Faith and of fortune. Now hobbled by edict and Parliamentary
Actions the abbey was emptied and shuttered, the occupants exiled.
Soon the monastic endowments were forfeited, leaving no legal
Authorization for maintenance, groundskeeping and renovation.
Absent the caretaking given by stewards, the elements took hold.
Nature’s relentless advances of time and corrosion battered,
Weakening columns and arches that shouldered the weight of the structure.
Thundering storms carried bolts of bright lightning, while gales blew the roofing
Off of the parapets, towers and belfries. And decade by decade,
Ravaged by wind and relentless erosion, the graves of the churchyard
Started to topple and fall down the cliffside. And incrementally,
Buttresses broken, collapsing and crumbling, nature reclaims her.
One hundred ninety nine steps link the town with the ruins up the hill.
There on the cliff in the fog is the shell of what stood for God’s glory.
Under grey clouds you can still hear the echoes of choirs and chanting.
Slowly the structure is falling away and in solemn decaying,
Watching the centuries passing as generations lived and died there.
Nowadays visitors come to the East Cliff to marvel and wonder.
Strolling the ruins, the fields and the churchyard, nostalgic hearts; women
Clad in black dresses and lace and pale faces, clutching their parasols,
Sauntering dandies in tophats and waistcoats accompany lovers;
Wistful of romance and darkness, they call to the ruins of Whitby Abbey:
Etiam in morte vivas.
Sep 8, 2025
Sep 8, 2025 at 6:20 AM UTC