Poetry Abysmal Apathetic Apocathery

Congenial Organism

? The Architect ✍️
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and wrought... I sit here with a thought will my prose and rhythm save me? Once too many-a-times I asked is this worth it, and will I last? Sharp words and cluttering verbs are all too much when it's a bit absurd. With these fingers, I write this time not for me and not for mine. I look at ye as you see my muse untwine. With fickle wrists - uncertain gist - I'm inclined to find a light in this bleak and unforgiving night. Woe to me and my dreadful thoughts along came a friend but my mind in knots. Eager I venture to corners confined a little each time and I ask if you're inclined to continue this adventure. Silence is the response to all of my queries so I'm left in introspect something quite solemn and scary. A type of madness under the boards not often explored we've seen this before and always ignored. When the clock strikes twelve, I let it unveiled - a bit of sorrow to keep my tomorrow. I do not sleep before I see the sun - for if I did all that work would be undone.

Now hush little baby don't say a word, none of them will ever be heard.
So I leave to rest the wicked test, imagination and solemn jest you've seen sunrise.
My future lies at the end. All he wanted was a friend, with emotional ties the morning rise, the townsfolk all tell the tale that said he...​
 
The sound of silence, deafening to my ears. Without that tall liquid friend, the washed nights become vivid again - and with that so do the feelings. Ever-pressed into the deep folds of my mind to sit and fester. I feel the pressure like frigid depths, my jubilation waning. Soon it will start - the torturous crawling that pierces through-and-through. From mind to sensory like tidal waves across the conscience; it reaches in to take a part of you out. Each moon harder than the last we weep and quiver with outstretched hands and quiet lamentations that cross our lips for no one to hear but ourselves.

A sickened darkness has stricken me my friend. Ernest, I confess another solemn somber soliloquy for the pages I am apprehensive of the things in my corners; they whisper but not with cause. Ernest, I confess, to do this alone once more will likely end in distress. Again or never? My walls and stage covered in an infernal ensnarement - it seeks to quelch me. But tonight a victory for these words mount themselves in a reticent building on a busy street.​
 
The solemn grows and these walls - they speak. Creaking, rapping, ever-so just slightly tapping. Two small pools of the liquid sit in the distance that stretches farther each day. My arms outstretched and like habit, it is done. I will hang for you another page upon the wall for the eyes to see small, tall, aged and all. Let us start simply with a hyperbole or maybe it's not? We'll have to see. I think it is in our most primitive mind, to say the most human mind that what we fear is just as our civilized culture has taught. We're brought to fear and are utmost distraught when violence is on the spot. However, there are things ever-more cruel and sinister. You see it is not the blood, it is not the teeth, it is not the corpse at thy feet... as you look on the darkened hall with howling wind and slamming jalousie - the wicked weathered walls and the red-stained chestnut wood... as candle's flicker and your very soul can feel the heart quake as your skeleton tremble's within its skin... The darkened doorway, fully ajar - quite fitting lined with a black frame... you peer into the darkness.

Violence is frightening but is explainable, violence is an animal. No... that is not the fear we've come to avoid. What we've come to avoid is the darkness, the thing we cannot see. It moves without reason, it takes when it likes, but most of all... we don't know what it wants. It has never known logic and defies what man has made and come to understand.

All is silent and nothing moves, no windows slamming... not the wind howling...

*knock*

*knock*

*knock*

The sound grows ever near will its skin be pale?

It sees us all but waits for pain, when your walls are down...



The blood flows.
 

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