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21

Writings / Resurrection Man

« Last post by bahgheera on January 13, 2013, 01:31:33 AM »

A man,
In the middle of the night,
Alone, he knows exactly what he is doing.
On his knees, before a stone,
Digging, bare handed,
Digging down, down to what he doesn't want to find.
It is raining, pouring,
Massive, bulging drops of water
Bleeding from a terrible wound in the clouds,
The man wails as the lightning flashes,
He howls with an unsettling laughter,
As the thunder claps,
All the while, pulling colossal heaps of muck
From the disturbed ground underneath him.
Behind him is a tree,
Hundreds, maybe thousands of years old,
A towering oak timber that was just a sapling
When Charlemagne first laid siege to Eastphalia,
A spreading veil of leaves between earth and sky,
A vast arboreal estate,
That has seen it's share of sorrow and grief and anguish,
And the terrors created by humans,
Absorbing it all,
Budding each spring,
Leaves saturated with fright and dread and affliction.
And the man continues digging.
He howls and he scrapes,
He wails and cries and gouges,
And the rain pours down,
While around the tree
Stands a crowd of onlookers.
A gathering of those best unseen,
Hundreds of bone-men,
With their ghastly expressions
A ghoulish light in each eye socket.
They look on at the man,
Murmuring and chuckling and chittering
At his dire condition,
Their bones clinking together
Making a horrid sound,
As though the tree was hung
With a thousand abhorrent wind chimes.
And the man still digs.
What is this? The man pauses,
Something is found in the mire,
His fingers scrabble across a hard surface,
He quickens his pace,
Flinging the dripping sod
Out of his gruesome excavation,
And reveals the wooden surface,
Of what you have probably guessed,
Is a coffin.
An unceremonious casket,
A simple pine box,
With a mysterious script
Inscribed on the top.
The man is now very close
To the end of his task.
Flinging open the lid,
He discovers it empty,
He knew this would be the case.
So he climbs inside,
Lays himself down,
And closes the lid,
Sealing himself inside,
With a curious feeling of satisfaction.
And the bone-men above
Take over the task,
Roaring with a hideous laughter,
Tossing the damp grime
Back into the horrifying breach in the earth.
And the man now knows,
He is right where he belongs.

22

Writings / I saw you today.

« Last post by bahgheera on September 24, 2012, 07:17:14 PM »

I saw you today.
Walking up the sidewalk, coming towards me,
with a look on your face as though you had somewhere
important to go to. Really.
I said 'Hello',
you replied the same,
and went on by me, our
polite exchange now over.
I rolled my eyes in disgust,
now that you can't see me.
That's what I really think of you,
you random person.

23

Writings / Tales From The Negaverse, Vol. III Chapter 19.

« Last post by bahgheera on September 20, 2012, 08:37:52 PM »

In the House of Shadows,
There we were.
Seventeen of us,
A meeting, of sorts,
A coming together, a merging,
Of all our special talents.
Some of us able to think odd thoughts,
Some able to see between
The wind and the air,
Some of us with no particular talent at all,
Just there to even the number.
Around midnight,
There came a shout,
From outside, in the yard.
We poured to the window,
We drained through the doorway,
Splashed into the yard,
To see what it was.
Here is what it was,
One of our number,
Had ventured outside (knowing better),
And strolled into the cornfield,
Across the dirt road.
A vast field of ears,
Listening to the earth
Telling it's somber, grim story.
Into this cornfield, our member had strayed,
And had found something.
Here is what he found,
A dog, a hideous malformed canine travesty,
Relieved of it's being,
No longer an entity,
Mangled, struck through
With a sort of spear,
An ancient weapon,
Not used for war,
But for the doing of dark deeds.
Lanced through the heart,
The tip embedded in the ground,
It was clearly dead,
As dead as anything ever was.
And as I viewed the mongrel,
Filled with sadness at his horrible end,
The world seemed to turn just a little faster.
As a matter of fact,
I suddenly perceived the spin
That brings us light, darkness, winter, fall.
I became dazed with the sensation,
And stumbled nearer the hound of death,
When, in the midst of my confusion,
One thing became clear:
The hound was no longer dead.
I, having come too close,
It raised its head,
Lurched with its neck,
And sank fetid fangs into my shin.
It was in an instant, that nothing mattered any longer,
Something passed into me,
Immediately,
Something that had a need,
Something that needed me,
To fulfill the horrible need,
I turned and began to run,
Looking, hunting, the need so great,
My former life cloudy, distant,
No longer relevant,
Some sort of dream I once had.
There are people,
Back at the house,
Go get them.
Come closer, just a little closer to me,
Let me bite you.

24

Writings / Moth / Girl

« Last post by bahgheera on September 14, 2012, 09:25:59 PM »

As I was walking,
Down the endless road,
A road that led to nowhere,
A road with no beginning
And no end,
A grassy byway,
With sorrow behind,
And anger ahead,
A vague description of a path,
Lit by permanent twilight,
As I was walking down this road,
I saw many things,
Creatures, animals maybe,
Some real, many not,
Things with huge eyes,
Things with many teeth,
Things with a seething hatred for me,
Some of them existing in the shadows,
And some of them made of the shadows themselves.
One of the creatures,
Began to follow me,
It descended from the trees,
And flitted around my head for a bit,
Growing, shrinking, beating its wings,
Beating its heart,
Leaving a trail of darkness in the air,
As though it were some sort of shade,
A dark, cloudy moth, wafting through the woods,
Blowing through the leaves,
Drifting through the minds of hapless travelers.
As the moth came nearer,
It occurred to me,
That this was no moth,
It was a girl.
A girl with an odd appearance,
She still resembled a moth,
Black hair, black imaginations,
And eyes blacker than her soul,
As though she had run out of apologies,
And suffered the infinite bitterness,
That was manifested in her malignant stare.
She came near to me,
And whispered a word into my ear,
And to this day I can't remember the word,
But the word was black, and dark,
And made of shadows,
And carried her spirit with it.
I repeated the word back to her,
And I realized then that she had become the word.
This word was shaped just like a moth,
And it rose from my mind,
And beat its wings,
And its heart,
And flew back into the trees,
Leaving me alone with the dusk and gloom.

25

Writings / Master of Rage

« Last post by bahgheera on May 19, 2012, 11:27:30 AM »

I stand atop a furious peak,
On a mountain made of the circuitry of nightmares,
Master of Rage,
Commander of Madness,
I stand my ground,
Through eons untold.
I've made my stay,
Here on this mountain,
Since the moon was a young man,
Since the humans,
Were first flung into existence,
Since before mighty steel met titanic flint,
And struck the sun alight.
And here I stand, continuously,
On this aberrated mound,
Blasted by the tempests and tornadoes,
A corrupted hurricane of villainy,
Stirring up from the valley of technological disaster.
It is I who cast lightning from my fingers,
To weigh down your heinous inventions,
It is I who calls down the thunder,
To shatter your understanding,
It is I who calls up terrors unknown,
To ruin your reason,
And throw down your sanity.
One day, I will move from this hideous crag,
And bring my fury,
Into your cities,
Into your civilized lives,
And upset everything you know,
You will remember the day,
Red letter event,
The day that the Madness and Rage,
Brought the storms to you,
Filled your streets,
With rampaging creatures,
Full of slime and ire,
In your doors and out,
Bringing everything you've created,
Everything you've encumbered,
The man on the mountain with,
Back to you forever.

26

Writings / The Book Of Ashes

« Last post by bahgheera on May 17, 2012, 04:09:51 PM »

You filled the air,
With your ravings and lunacies,
And I copied it all down,
In my Book of Ashes.
My Book of Ashes is a rarity indeed,
Parchments of goat-skin,
From the most ancient,
And unkown,
Of Egyptian crypts.
Thread made of sinews,
From a griffin,
Who has long since taken wing,
To soar over the mountains of the dead.
Ink made from ashes from the burning,
Of one thousand Incan mummies,
A color so dark,
That not even light can escape it.
My pen is a quill,
From a sorcerers hawk,
The mage attendant
To Arthur himself,
And the fowl enchanted them both.
I write it all down,
Day and night,
Careful to mark every word.
And your rantings and deliriums,
That you babble and spew,
Will remain in my book,
Long after I have crumbled,
And returned to the dust.
Read this book,
Once it is done,
That you may hold them up,
As a warning,
To those who would come after.
Give your mind,
To my Book of Ashes.

27

Writings / In the Eyes of a Most Heartless Fate

« Last post by bahgheera on May 13, 2012, 10:20:36 AM »

Fate, fortune, destiny,
They drive us, they hasten us,
Down our avenues of circumstance,
That assign us each
Our personal histories,
That we are remembered by.
And it was fate, fortune, destiny,
That hurried you along,
In your vile and spiteful quest,
Your heinous malevolence,
Your ill-natured plan,
To destroy me once and for all.

And my destruction was complete,
A kind word, a good meal,
A vial of venom,
Unseen,
Was all it took,
To do me in,
I, who would have given you anything!
The Fate you chose,
Had sealed my doom,
And here your story,
Was complete,
As far as you were concerned with me.

Or so you thought,
For the following night, I visited you
In your room,
Yes, that was me,
Impossibly me,
Who whispered from the wall,
Who rustled the papers,
On the desk,
Who blew the ashes,
And the cinders,
From the fireplace,
It was me,
Who shadowed to your bedside,
While you were still half dreaming,
Your mind slowly coming to terms,
With a reality on the outside,
Suddenly just as terrible,
As the unreality on the in,
It was me,
That grinned in the gloom,
Of shaded moonlight through your window,
A mortal smirk,
On my immortal mask,
On my now ghastly face,
You in your bed,
And I standing over you,
Your screeching and scraping,
Becoming the only music,
I will ever know again,

How Fate has tricked you!
How Destiny tried you,
How Fortune has smiled on neither of us!
For all the while,
You judged yourself Mistress
Of Fate, and Fortune, and Destiny,
As you played directly into their plans.
For the Fate you had planned,
For me alone,
Will you now suffer along with me.
I will be here tonight,
And tomorrow night,
And every night after,
To bring the darkness,
And madness,
Of a terrible and most heartless Fate.

28

Writings / Dancing a jig

« Last post by bahgheera on May 07, 2012, 08:28:38 AM »

I never thought
I'd dance again.
Never thought
I'd come out of my shroud,
Or that the light
Of the celestial candle,
That gives us each day,
Would brush against
The no-more grin,
I now hold forever.
Never thought
My friends and my family,
Would laugh with me,
Eat and drink with me,
Twirl me round and round,
As I rattle and reel and jig
In time to the music,
From a band that has played for days,
Spinning me
Like a whirling top,
That spins so fast
The pattern blurs,
And becomes something else
Entirely.
Now here I am,
With all the others
From the old times,
And the new,
Carousing, making merry,
For the turning of the bones.
Now it is over,
Time to go back
To my marble home,
With my new suit on.
The sun sinks down,
As do I,
With my gifts, and my flowers,
And the scent of the perfumes
You all annointed me with.
Goodbye for now,
I will see you all,
After seven turns of the candle,
When you carry my bones out
For the turning.

29

Writings / Boneman / Orchestra

« Last post by bahgheera on May 07, 2012, 08:17:13 AM »

There's a bone man conducting the orchestra,
Waving his bone baton,
A dowel of ulna from a long dead composer,
In the hand of this relic of the Italian Lully.
He swings his wand,
In a time signature replete with evil portent,
Driving the deranged orchestra,
Full of dementia and mayhem,
To a score written,
By the devil himself.
The orchestra plays,
They blow and they bow,
They drum and they finger and fidget,
They render such sounds,
As one cannot bear,
And they play on in this way,
Once and again,
Continuously,
In the center of my own deluded genius,
Inhabiting my mind,
As my mind haunts my body,
They are there all day,
Right where they belong.
And I wouldn't give them up,
For anything.

30

Writings / A Wise Old Friend

« Last post by bahgheera on December 04, 2011, 03:14:07 PM »

Well.
Hello there, my old friend.
It's nice to see you,
It's been so long.
You look just the same as you did
The last time I picked you up.
Yellowed pages,
Tattered cover,
The smell of the dust between pages.
We've aged nicely together,
Haven't we?
How long have we known each other?
Lets see, I must have been 9 or 10,
that would make it thirty years at least.
Though you're much older than me,
We've had some times together, eh?
And though you said the same thing
Every time I read you,
It always meant something just a little different,
A little deeper,
A little more profound,
As I grew up.
I have something to tell you,
I have some children of my own now,
And I hope, I just hope,
That one of them will find you,
Just like I did,
On the day my life changed.