Not a vision, apparition – blue-cold shroud of ghoul,
just a sense –
only that you know
through psychic penetration;
there! lurking, sulking
under murky tones of light
interrogating clouds of dust
heavy in the air –
dank must pervading;
what lair invites? –
where hollow breaths and mutters
heavy in the head
bequeath to me the
presence of the dead.
A roar of silence
calls up the death of day,
let birth of night enshrine,
come of age,
in black,
to stifle reason.
Like the crushing of a skull,
whispers beg me join, coalesce.
My answer bled a scream –
For this was not a dream.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2012
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem