In a station,
Beneath the rain,
Here I wait,
For the nine o'clock train.
Some say it goes far,
Down the old way.
To a better place,
You'll hear others say.
But I dance alone,
On the rusty train tracks.
I hear the train whistle,
Sigh, and relax.
In a station,
Beneath the rain,
I did not miss,
The nine o'clock train.

Fields of green lay beneath my feet,
Behind me rings Civitate Vox,
Before me sits moldering Nox,
As the voice of Nil calls to meet.
The shroud passes as in a dream,
Shades carrying its murky cloth,
Repenting for their sin of Sloth,
Forever sewing up the seam.
Then passed by the god, Terminus,
Who froze enemies as he gazed,
But now upon him was emblazed,
That "Oblivio est natus."
Hush! Sullen silence overcame,
The crevasses around this world.
A lonely shadow came unfurled,
And birthed a Being with no name.
This Being bore no human mark,
Save for the grin upon its face,
As darkness flowed between each space,
Of triangular teeth of shark.
It stalked around my person here,
Its stride as long as three of men,
Three times around this deathly glen,
Its aura seeping unmasked fear.
At last it stopped and looked to me,
Silence growing ever closer,
Causing panic to come over,
Despite it had no eyes to see.
The panic then came from my slit,
In the shape of a primal yell,
And from that hollow, hell-bent shell,
"Silentium!" commanded it.
And so my voice was cleanly cut,
Cords of my throat now snapped in two,
Blood now coated my teeth like dew,
And finally my mouth was shut,
As flesh fused my lips together.
No horrid sound could I utter,
In stoic prose or rambled stutter.
Silent I will be forever.
The Being's face was newly formed,
From that devilish grin of its,
A visage now perceived befits.
My maw was on its face, deformed.
Again three times it strode around,
As my blood poured out of its jaw.
The crimson river from that maw,
Beneath its feet did dye the ground.
It beckoned to a forest near,
The dusk-lit glen in which we stood.
I followed it as fast I could,
As between the trees it did veer.
Nearing a cliffside, it brought me,
To the rocky-edged precipice,
Underneath which began its lease,
Of beautiful infinity.
"Behold the splendor," rang our voice,
As it reached out to the vision,
But at the edge was a fission,
Between reality and choice.
My eyes feasted on the beauty,
In the instant he gouged them out,
As "Caecus!" I heard it shout.
Only crimson shadows I see.
Then forward I went, down and down,
The blackness of the cliff around,
As I neared closer to the ground,
But in Acheron did I drown.
Woefulness overcame my soul,
But not a drop did I dare sip,
Until I felt the Being's grip,
Which saved me, but it takes its toll.
I coughed upon the ashen soil,
Which now filled my tortured breathing,
And with sight no more deceiving,
I heard demons' infernal toil.
Now one Eidolon did I see,
Amidst the never-ending night.
The Being strode into my sight,
Holding my eyes with dreadful glee.
He raised them up into the sky,
And into his face pressed them both.
"At last I see!" the Being quoth,
And uncovered his only eye.
A final thrice he strode around,
As I turned to maintain his stare,
And with horror realized that there,
Was no soul in it to be found.
Its heartless gaze bore to my core,
Now as it stopped, it told me this,
"Now Oblivio est omnis!"
And so it was forevermore.

Mom always walks her child to school,
Her little girl's lunchbox in hand.
Every day she cares for her,
Teaching her how to walk and stand.
She held her close that fateful day,
Against her breast while nose to nose,
"Mommy, why is this lump right here?"
Now only whitewashed halls she knows.

Mom always waves her child to school,
From the porch with a trembling hand.
The poison did not work this time,
And there was not more she could stand.
She pays the bills day in, day out.
The insurance has long run dry.
She coughs up blood, cleans it quickly,
And makes sure her daughter won't cry.

Mom calls her child at school sometimes,
A red phone in her bony hand.
"The doctors say I'm doing great!"
At nine months since she last could stand.
The blade has cut the flesh demon,
Yet even faster back it grew.
Waves of power rolled over it,
Yet there was no cure that we knew.

Her child now walks alone to school,
Mom's old tin lunchbox in her hand.
The grief within her swells sometimes,
Making it hard to talk and stand.
She visited her that cold day,
By the old brick church down the lane.
"Mommy, why did it take you now?"
She whispered through soft tears of pain.

Emotions are cast before blinded eyes,
To stand before the final test of time.
Will our future look on us and despise,
One hundred forty characters of rhyme?
Jaded words cast into the endless sea,
Or three words said behind a glowing screen,
Generations look back with shame and see,
Romantic nothings not one soul did mean.
The birthing of passion is all but gone,
And often are we caught up, bound, and tied,
Trading away for screens our forlorn dawn,
Lost in the sea, in the black, raging tide.
So our time shall be remembered as thus,
One hundred forty characters killed us.

The golden sun soon was setting,
Waves of light cascading outward,
Round the castle, tall and towered,
And on halls of glass reflecting.

Masked they stood, awaiting the scene,
Before the finely gilded gates,
And through the massive, sturdy grates,
The lady of the night was seen.

Above the castle yard she stood,
A feather gown encased her form,
As wings an angel would adorn,
Her golden hair a shining hood.

A lilac mask concealed her face,
And unto it she now became,
A child's face, but a body dame,
That strode with an elegant grace.

The gates were opened to the crowd,
Proceeding into the estate,
No one dared to ever be late,
To be caught beneath the Night's shroud.

The castle opened unto them.
The hallways sparkled in bright light,
Casting out the hideous Night,
Stalwart there as a star-like gem.

The ballroom was a grand affair,
Tapestry hung from wall to wall,
And hues of light consumed the hall,
Amidst the noble and the fair.

The child-angel proceeded about,
Her guests, the wealthy of the land,
As at the door he stood, not grand,
But wicked in his mask's dark pout.

Cloaked in black from his head to heel,
The man stood imperiously,
As all in his vicinity,
Before the Lord of Night did kneel.

With careful pace, he strode around,
The gala and the frightened crowd,
No longer could they flee the shroud,
That followed him, a hunting hound.

As a hush overcame the throng,
To the lady, he sauntered there,
And gently stroked her golden hair,
As from the walls a haunting song,

Echoed throughout the castle halls,
So he led her onto the floor,
As the sunset shone through the door,
Setting ablaze the sullen ball.

Amid the inferno blazing,
The angel and demon danced there,
Under the nobles' constant stare,
As one parted soul reflecting,

Unto the other, just the same,
One of the deepest, darkest hell,
The other who casts glamoured spell.
They danced, the darkness and the dame.

Though, as the sun began to set,
The child's aspect upon her face,
Within the darkness did now embrace,
The selfsame form that did beget,

The darkness in the castle great,
That danced with the angel, fallen,
Cursed by the darkness befallen,
On the grandeur of her estate.

No more the feathered angel-child,
A black gown of burning ember.
Not one soul can now remember,
The angel from this demon, wild.

Hand in hand, they danced forever,
In the hallways, and through the gate,
Into the forest. Never late,
Was the Night, silent and clever.