REALM OF DARKNESS
From Realm of Darkness #1:
WHEN HE COMES
by Leilah Wendell
He comes not like that thief in the night,
nor descends of flailing bladed wings.
No malice has He toward the fearing soul.
No anger spits from His still, cold lips.
He comes as the gentle whisper of winter wind,
or the quick ecstasy of the lightening bolt
immediate yet lingering as if embraced
by a darkling shadow or twilyte shade.
He is not the wielder of the killing blade.
The River of Death teems not with blood,
nor the tears of selfish grief.
No lost souls are there adrift upon the current,
only lich-lights remain to mark each journey,
silent ripples on the deep, dark waters
that gently kiss invisible shores.
He is not the barrenness of bones,
nor the stagnance of a winter pool.
He is the fullness of an autumn bouquet
and that which runs rife in the misty bog.
He is the free acceptance of primordial change
where no conditions stem the cycle,
where no tears float like heavy oils
on the surface of such crystal waters.
He is the twilyte forever bounded
by the two extremes of day and night.
He is the moment wherein all things do change--
The stoppage of time and elimination of space
between all that was and all that is,
and all that shall be, is a stationary point
that contains all times at once
and all space on a narrow bridge.
Where everything culminates in a "winking out"--
A moment of darkness
wherein all reality is contained
and all illusion cast aside.
Death is the dream come to flesh
only to shed the veil of sleep
and reveal the naked form of Truth
reclining peaceably and shaded by life's afterglow--
When He comes, all of man's truths shall matter.
And the thin icy skin afloat on His waters
shall crack from the weight of a single soul.
NECROPOLIS
by Richard David Behrens
What vast necropolis is this
whose ancient age englooms,
A countless population palled
within decrepit tombs?
No sign, nor gate to delineate
nor hedge to mark its bound,
No fence of brass, or stone, or wood;
not any to be found.
A silent sea of mound and tomb
with waves of tombstones weaving,
From horizon to horizon full;
but not one mourner grieving.
Within the sky no bird to fly
nor scurrying creature giving,
Any movement, any sign
of anything near living.
But, I am here and you are here
and as we clear our view,
It's plain to see, at least to me,
this city's grown by two!
THE LAST FORTRESS
by Linda Ostrander
In the eerie, always dreary
Statued graveyards of the past,
Orations of ghastly vision;
Shrouded in death's last decision,
With epitaphs that come too fast.
The funeral veil, worn and pale
Drapes the moldy monuments;
There creating, always waiting
To snatch away the hesitating,
Bequeathing dismal, sad laments.
The last great meddler is the peddler
Of coffin, casket, tolling bell.
The sickle of the reaper's tomb
Reaches hands into the gloom;
The muffled drum of our citadel.
NEPENTHE
by Marie Buckner
every year on the same day
you celebrate your birth
another full circle ‘round the sun
another year cooling to the chill of your grave
the shadows of your life lengthening
the earth crumbling beneath you
and you smile bravely
holding in your despair
pretending it isn't so
not so I
unholy vision of the night
creature beyond time
who laughs at your conventions
desperate inventions
I can free you
here in dusk's threshold where I dwell
defiant in a sea of immortal beauty
open yourself to me
so I may enter you
and drink the red fire, its flame writhing
in the fear that enslaves you
your arm linked in mine
as we stride in long black velvet
through linden copse and nightshade wild
where among brittle leaves to entwine
in divine ritual
to mingle blood fire and ichorous ice
amid sweet incense of decay
and soar in truth's ecstasy
make love to me
while in absolute stillness
of your moonlit release
for I am your nepenthe at the water's edge.
where no more tired reflection distorts.
O let them consecrate your bones then
you at last will be timeless, ageless--
come to me.
THE NECROMANCER
by Richard David Behrens
A figure stooped above a grave
whose occupant had long been thrust,
Beneath sparse scattered weeds that wave
above unconsecrated dust.
A graveyard filled with paupers' mound
and mounds of murderers and thieves,
No churchyard this! Inglorious ground!
a place where no grim mourner grieves.
In shadows cast by moonlit skies
the kneeling figure lifts a hand,
And, speaks of Belial, Lord of Flies,
then mutters out a dark demand!
"Hail! O Master of the Night!"
he said, with solemnness of tone,
"I Damn the Children of the Lights;
let Samael's dominance now be shone!"
"Give life to this poor wretch" he cried,
"that all existence know thy power!
"Show all who live, their priests have lied,
at this sovereign midnight hour"
And, speaking thus, the figure carved of wood
while whisps of mists did about
him wave,
Then took a figure carved of wood
and laid it down upon the grave.
And, from the pocket of his cloak
he drew a powder dark and red;
Threw it on the grave, then spoke,
"Rise thee sleeper from thy bed!"
"Rise thee by thy Master's might
and rise thee from the ground,
Rise thee a child of the night
from out thy quiet mound!
Then lightening split the midnight sky
and thunder sealed the spell,
And, there was heard a distant cry
from the unhallowed Halls of Hell.
A momentary stillness now
descended on the dark cloaked man,
Until the creature stirred below
and a rumbling of the ground began.
That low and muted quaking brought
a grin to the necromancer's face,
For this was a sign of what he sought;
stirring from its resting-place.
At length, a the soil which made the mound
was moved by a bony hand which rose,
From its prison underground;
in unrelenting lone repose.
Soon a second hand emerged
from out its wormy earthen bed;
Then, both they bony arms were purged
just prior to its moldered head.
At last, the form from out the grave
stood well erect in dripping gore,
A worm infested ancient knave;
a testament of the sins it bore.
The Necromancer touched its cheek
with the tip of his dagger's blade,
And, bid the corpse to finally speak
by such a gesture made.
"Thee are risen from thy tomb,"
the necromancer said,
"Thee are fresh out of the womb;
that holds the living dead!"
"Now speak to me of all thy know,"
about the place whereat thy dwell;
Tell me of the worlds below
within the realm of Satan's Hell."
"What punishments pursue thy soul;
What egregious sins did thou commit,
That thou shouldst be without parole
from thy prison deep within the pit?"
But, the dead man would not answer;
just stood silent dripping gore,
As again the Necromancer
bade him speak to him once more.
Thy hoary form, at last, did speak
and said, "Thee brought me at this time,
To give thee answers thou dost seek!
Now thee are guilty of a crime!"
"I burn in Hell's eternal fire
for a crime I did, in life, commit!
And, thou art brave to so inquire,
and clever if thou makes use of it!"
"Then tell me thou ungainly creature!
Tell me this, if nothing more;
Tell me of that useful feature
only a wise-man might explore."
"If thee profess to wisdom's glory"
replied the corpse, "then listen now!
I will not spin thee tale or story;
to anyone as wise as thou!
"If thou art wise," the dead man said,
then heed the wisdom in my answer!
My crime was the raising of the dead!
In life I was a Necromancer!"
BLACK ARE THE DREAMS
by Richard David Behrens
Black are the dreams I have dreamt,
of countless days that I have
spent,
On dark rude paths that I have trod
avoiding men, escaping God;
Running, falling ever under
ground that quakes and skies that
thunder;
Never ever gaining way;
lost by night and lost by day;
Afraid to stop, afraid to rest;
afraid to reckon damned or blest;
I run alone, a haunted man;
back to where I once began!
Back to that grim clandestine clime
within the silent womb of time;
Where first was formed this fragile soul
thrown naked to this world . . .
unwhole.
And, then to suffer til his sin
brings round about that final
dawn,
In a game he cannot win;
from birth, til his final breath
is drawn.
Shackled to an endless thirsting,
sisyphusting labors bursting,
Cursed by some unseen Presider
broadened not a pica wider,
Not a gaining, nor decreasing,
just its presence never ceasing;
Never entering nor leaving,
never jubilant nor grieving,
Never answering, nor chiding,
not a hint of where It's hiding;
Not a respite from obsession's
taunting mad and grim oppressions;
Only the ever present moaning
of my soul with me groaning,
For that beast that stalks my soul
and, into which depths its claws shall
plumb,
Shall finally gain its dread control
and, portend that eternal Hell to Come!
But, does it matter who's the stronger?
Can it matter any longer,
Whether I, or you, or He,
or any creature Land or Sea;
Or any phantom raining fright;
or any demon of the night,
Finds the Book . . . the Book of Sage
relegated blank by age?
But, I would welcome Its addressing,
deigned or feigned, a word expressing,
Ah yes! Any single word would do
just to know I've broken through,
All that silence taut, unbending,
all that muted condescending;
All that promise ever failing
echoed in some distant wailing.
But! Of all things known, it's this I know
of life and love, of Heaven, and Hell;
I know their charm, I know their glow
and know their face . . . but not too well!
AS ALL OTHERS
by John A. Youril
This night is as all others have been
But nowhere do I find my own reflection
In your eyes
Or hear the thousand echoes of my undiscovered thoughts
I have died within you
And within you dwell alone and silent
My dim light fading
Lost where hell and heaven strive against all mortal hope
A grave marked with not a single flower remembered
Nor a single tear shed in comprehension
Of the endless death
The anguished creation that creates no more.
SUCCUBUS
by Gregory E. Harrison
Passion bubbles forth from the dark
pit of the night's belly,
while fragile fingers soothe the surface,
and cold darkness flows through my veins.
The incubus sprouts greedily in the
fertile marches of the mind,
and I am shaken by the dream's
sudden reality.
Strange features of embedded emotions
seem to taint your soft skin
as a love of vendettas grow
out of our impious sin.
Smiling grotesquely, we stalk the hidden
paths of twilight,
and as we succumb to fervent touches,
the shadows of evil seem to fade,
leaving only desire to pour into our
dark, red hearts.
We lie on the ruby petals of roses,
as the sharp, warm thorns caress our skin,
and our crimson blood flows with a vengeance
over the forest's green.
And as our deceitful love subsides,
the night suffocates me into a slumber
of forgotten sin,
and from the coldness of the heavens,
comes the nightmare once again . . .
A RECOLLECTION
by John A. Youril
I will not be free of you
Nor consent to imagine a world fashioned from your absence
I will distinguish neither day nor night
Nor know more of this earth than I have already fathomed
I will die as the hours die
Remembering all
Taking all
Leaving nothing of myself in the unknown heart of any other.
HOW EASILY
by Richard David Behrens
How easily my mind falls in
the labyrinth of Oblivion;
where mortal
and Seraphim espouse;
where man and
angel together espouse;
From out that Mystic ebon Sea
the mysteries of Eternity!
And from these depths . . . Ah! Who indites
on this the darkest night of nights;
such an airy
symphony;
such an eerie
symphony;
Some remnant o my past restore
of something I have known before!
All the lowing of their sighs
fills the evening's starless skies;
fills the emptiness
of night;
fills the vacuum of
the night;
And through my stilted soul runs free
all the blackness of that Sea.
Who? Who are they that know the why?
These phantoms of a boundless sky!
Do they tell of hope for
me?
Tell of welcomed hope for
me!
Or are their passionate rantings prate
to ever seal me in my fate?
SHE SPEAKS WITH SHADOWS
by George Chadderdon
When dusk embraces the autumn sky
With sable, ebon cloak of shade,
She speaks with shadows by and by
Which gather ‘round as twilight breaks.
To lay upon her gentle ear
Their tales of woe and dark regrets,
Of shattered hopes and bitter years
And restless yearning in their breasts.
They beckon her with whispered cries
And silently she listened,
And in her stormy hazel eyes
A dewy tear glistens.
What comfort is her frail form
To such benighted eye.
Her gaze is soft; her voice is warm,
And to her side they fly.
Alas, alas, my fate, alas.
To be a shadow yearning
To walk with her when Dawn awakes,
Her frosty torchlight burning.
But with my shadowed heart I bless her,
Hoping this might bring her bliss,
And sadly wonder as I wander,
Would she take a shadow's kiss?
THE OCCULTIST
by Richard David Behrens
These are the Winter's withered days
whose brilliance fast descending,
Lies, in state, in ashen greys
enhanced by daylight's ending.
Today is drear dark and cold in the bark
as my mind clings to vestigial reason;
My life's bloods decreased and my soul near deceased
in the dead of the grim Winter season.
The ground is inured by the winter endured,
too cold to comfortably die on,
Where steel-grey clouds grow threatening snow
mid this realm of the Boreal Lion.
Where skeletal trees of barren mein
with outstretched limbs abiding,
In seas of mist stand half unseen
where creeping things are hiding.
All the air is bitterly dense
and chills with the sun's declining,
And, cold is the indurate earth that lies
beneath that misty lining.
I walk this haunted nether land
mid spectres fleet and darting,
Amorphous figures bolder grown
with daylight fast departing.
Beneath my feet uneven ground
encumbers ambulation,
As though alive, the gelid earth
secrets debilitation.
Protruding through these dankly dense
unyielding Stygian waves,
The tops of lurid tombstones loom
above forgotten graves.
Ah! This is the wretched churchyard;
a grim configuration,
Bounding a vast unfortunate lot
who should have sought cremation.
Assorted markers, crossed and etched
in grey low mist assume,
A gaunt grey granite garden round
about some ancient tomb.
The Late, interred, are laid to rest
among their silent peers,
Indifferent, all, to name or rank
or qualitative years.
But, there they lie these sons of men
each framed by stone and mound,
Forever still, forever mute
in consecrated ground.
No sign of relief . . . no end to my grief
no promise of hoped liberation;
Just constant distress in the abyss of my breast
and the pain of my fate's flagellation.
Unbending binding, the elements aligning
grant not an iota of giving;
A respite from grief, or a mote of relief
to educe any reason for living.
But, drugged near insane with Fate as the ban
in the catalytic caustic libation,
Forced down my throat while dark demons did gloat
at the withholding of God's liberation.
My pace is palsied, slow and pained
and, Death more bold and fleet,
Creeps mutely within the opaque veil
that lies about my feet.
Near and far no more define
no path, nor know direction;
To take me past those long asleep,
awaiting resurrection.
For, I had sought by the hour the vast hidden power
in rare known tomes of arcane lore,
And wrought up dread, the darkest hour
a soul of man has ever bore.
Great mystic gates! That terror awaits?
What mountainous miseries hover?
What torturous terror was sent by my error?
I fear I soon may discover!
For words near to babbling, for mystical dabbling,
I'm cursed to suffer damnation,
Oh! Rueful the day I wandered this way
and muttered that bleak incantation.
There are demons, grim spirits, seeking my blood
for unholiest covenants made;
Now! On this night, comes the ultimate fright
for the Reaper readies his blade.
With the sun descended, my last day near ended
I'll wait with nowhere to hide,
For it's here that I'll stay, and my tombstone shall say:
He conjured! He dabbled! He
died!
WHERE DREAMS
BECOME
by Leilah Wendell
Once in Twilyte's gloom I ventured
the fairing fields of Auburn
where darkness unfolds like vampire wings
over the face of Lucerne,
where shadows emerge from shrouded corners
bathed in the evening mist,
where spectral lovers wait by rivers
for some melancholy tryst.
There was I, from travel weary
merely seeking some repose.
‘Twas not by chance nor accident,
‘twas simply that I chose
to make my bed on hallowed ground
bethinking peace complete,
to take my slumber with the dead
and into dream retreat.
When all at once, the earth beneath me
suddenly gave way
and two cold arms broke through the ground
caressing me where I lay.
As I was drawn down deeper still
into this sinking grave,
I knew ‘twas only Death's cold kiss
that I'd come to crave.
I heard the sound of a distant requiem
swelling in my brain,
a chorus of hollow voices buried
in the tolling bell's refrain.
Figures draped in silver light,
their bluegrass bodies glide
like macabre angels with bleeding eyes
reeling side to side.
I thought perhaps, I'd quit this grave
and join them in their dance,
but had neither the will nor the wish
to end this cold romance.
Locked into Death's strange embrace,
He drew me deeper still
down into His moulded bed
where passions dark fulfill.
Before the darkness claimed its throne
I chanced a fleeting glance
and saw a figure, wrapped in black
ready to advance.
His towering height and awesome wings
spread shadows on my soul.
I closed my eyes, but still could see
His flaming aureole.
Once in daybreak's haze recalled
the dream in metaphor,
the taste of mould upon my lips,
I could not e'er ignore
that in this dampened niche I lay
entwined in Sycamore
that embraced me like cadaverous arms
did the night before.
LET ME REST
by Robin Blackburn
How cruel you are to call me from
This grave where I was sleeping
Comfortably, in Earth's warm womb,
Buried in a bridal gown.
I claw with crippled hands through dirt
And crawl through the mold of my own decay
To reach the surface of your world
And stumble where you summon me.
Through clouded eyes I see you now,
Your face twisted into a cold little smile,
Your gaze like liquid nitrogen
Enfolding me, freezing me where I stand.
You hold a jar wrapped all in cloth
As red as my blood — this is my prison.
Forever kept from grace or damnation,
I will spend eternity as your slave.
I have no choice, no voice with which
I dare object to your commands.
This is how you like me —
Dead
To everyone but you.
MORE TO COME!