Tales of Turbulent Times

These short poems are horrible and terrifying.
Read on at your own risk.

Death By Legend 

A vampire sits back in a red velvet chair.
She cradles a child and rumples his hair.

Bright eyes look with wonder into their death.
And gasp for air with one last struggling breath.

Blood drains from veins of the child.
Darkness was here. Her feelings, mild.

She sits so still and watches the end.
When hunger arises, she'll do it again. 

A Tale of Torture

“Show me mercy!” the man cries.
The queen looks down into his eyes.

A raggedy soul, wretched in form.
His eyes are glazed, his hands are worn.

Her magnificent chest heaves with a sigh.
The jester smiles and waves goodbye.

His sobs are heard through the hall.
He crumples against the dungeon wall.

He is beaten close to death
He struggles to take another breath
The blood courses hot down his face
His mind travels to another place

A fire crackles while she pours the wine.
Her hair dark; breasts, divine.

She flashes a smile for some coin.
Heat and blood rush his loin.

He stays for a while.
He waits for another smile.

She fills the mugs for the beggars and thugs.

Into the night they drink and eat.
His heart races along with her feet.

The inn closes late.
He sits and waits.

The hearth begins to grow cold.
The empty room smells of mold.

She wraps herself in a shawl.
His skin starts to creep and crawl.

The wind is fierce and whips her hair.
His eyes are fixed in an awful stare.

Down the path she briskly strides
Time, he very carefully bides.

Darkness creeps around her form.
He rushes in like a furious storm.

Screams of terror lost this night.
Her eyes shut open, locked in fright.

Tears fall the very next day on the frail girl’s body on the path where she lay

His mind wakes terribly slow.
Memory in chains is carried in tow.

A rat scurries over his feet.
Body bruised and thoroughly beat.

The pain rushes in and he lets out a cry.
He tries to stand, but can only lie.

His death will come today, on a cold morning in the month of May

The sun is smothered by a darkening sky.
He stands on a scaffold up so high.

His crime is told to the crowd.
They cheer— their voices ring so loud.

The girl he murdered waits in the mist.
Her pale hands clenched in a fist.

Her eyes are gray with despair.
She watches his body swing through the air.

She slowly leaves her family's side,
Feeling hate and anger that she died. 

Julie’s Tragic Demise

Julie is going to die.
The time has come to say goodbye.

Blurred and bleary; her body's weary.

Death slips slowly into her veins,
Tightening its hold on slippery reigns.

The sheets pulled around her form—
Sweat soaked, tattered, and torn.

The end is always bleak, the doctor explained,
"She looks so weak."

Yesterday, in a mirrors glance,
She danced the most terrifying dance.

Back and forth she rode the wave.
Up and down, she was so brave.

Today she floats in a haze of hope,
Hanging on by a burning rope.

The disease that settled in her brain
Turned her manor quite insane.

A possession of the mind at hand—
A tortured soul in a vacant land

In the wake of the last tearful moment,
A priest holds her close and prays for atonement.

She screams and grunts, twisting in pain.
Her mother, sobbing, cries out her name, “Julie.”

Tiffany’s Last Tea Party

Tiffany sobs, twisting her fingers.
Frustrated tears have dried, but linger.

Her dolls all scattered in a heap on her bed.

Each one void of its pretty little head.

The tea party over; the china all broken.

She stares at the massacre with her eyes wide open—

Mary sits heavily in a cozy brown chair.
She carefully brushes her long flowing hair.

The knife at her side is stained with blood.

The mirror reflects distorted love.

In the sink, just down the hall

swim two lonely fingers, both quite small

Jack stands alone by the nursery gate.
Lighting a smoke, he stares at the lake.

The mist has robbed the man of his vision.

He takes a toke and makes a decision.

He stomps out the butt and turns to the house.

His stride is long and quiet as a mouse.

Up the stairs and into the room.

He rages in with a large wooden broom

Silence envelops the tidings within.

On the floor lay a horror and merciless sin.

Mary strides in and gasps at the sight.

Tiffany’s dead eyes are frozen in fright.

Just a pawn in their murderous game.

This child or the next, it’s all the same.

She was rotten and spoiled, it’s all so true.

She broke her dolls, what else could they do?

The Widow

A dreary day in late fall.
A man cascades across a hall.

He holds a candle that flickers fast.
While wolves in shadows are eerily cast.

In the attic a widow sings
About the wind the night air brings.

Pale fingers touch her face.
Soft and supple like a young girl’s waist.

Darning a blanket from the past.
Her sanity flew away so fast.

A shawl of time wrapped around a web.
That creeps and crawls inside her head.

Time to sleep
She slips away

She waits and waits for another day.