Frankenstein Poetry Novels & Stories

He stopped scrolling and read the full poem, his skin growing cold with gooseflesh as he did so. Along the shore the cloud waves break, The twin suns sink behind the lake, The shadows lengthen In Carcosa. Strange is the night where black stars rise, And strange moons circle through the skies, But stranger still is Lost Carcosa. Songs that the Hyades shall sing, Where flap the tatters of the King, Must die unheard in Dim Carcosa. Song of my soul, my voice is dead, Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed Shall dry and die in

Frankenstein spread his arms sideways looking at the sky filled with few twinkling stars as a meteor streaked across the sky. “I told you I will make things easier!” He snickered. Dryad’s uncle nodded, walked farther into the village. Frankenstein sighed again, glancing and touching the bandages on his body. What should I do next~ suddenly a small hand thrusted into the fat being’s chest ripping his heart out, Frankenstein looked around to see who dares, “Oh, well, well, well. Let me get this straight. All my thoughts was you and your second died, buried along with the ruins at the city but… you ripping out their hearts was useless because, they are my walking dead subjects!”

It's hair-raising that seems to be whispering to me. At which hour invasion starts from the heart. The creatures of the dark cometh fourth. The daylight shall bleed. The moon shall caterwauling. F'r imm'rtality shall cometh to an endeth. At which hour invasion starts from the heart. The creatures of the dark cometh fourth. The daylight shall bleed. The moon shall caterwauling. F'r imm'rtality shall cometh to an endeth. At which hour invasion starts from the heart. The creatures of the dark cometh fourth. The daylight shall bleed. The moon shall caterwauling. F'r imm'rtality shall cometh to an endeth.

Is it though? That made no sense, but I will take it. I flipped the page to see a poem written in Latin. I have never studied the language but for some reason, I was able to understand what the words meant. The poem read: For I am the light and the darkness of the night, I bring forth a sacrifice that will award me the strength to fight. A witch at night and a fairy by day, give me the sight to see the way. From the blindness of an unbeliever to the sight given to a faithful man, show me the secrets that present me with a plan. For the savior is dead and I am to rise, show me the way to the prize. This is my will so mote it be.

She was glad to know that they were safe, although she was missing them so much. The stroke of a piano key interrupted her soothing viewing. Her soul immediately responded. Other similar sounds followed, turning into song. Slow. Melancholic. It tugged at those invisible strings wrapping around her, calling out to her. A plea. A prayer. She followed it. The pungent smell of rotting flesh; of decay, was the first to attack her senses. And then the pain followed. Raw. Despairing. It made her want to scream; that is if she actually could. It was sickening. Unbearable. The song continued to play. Sad. Distorted. A painted face came into view. She knew that face, all too well. Nicholas. Shadows ca

For all we’d nearly lost again. For all the versions of me that had screamed in the dark and the one who finally screamed back. But far away, beyond the mountains and the fog, something stirred. Something seemed awkward. Because where one Revenant falls, a thousand ghosts remember. And they were beginning to wake.

Strangers she might once have passed on some forgotten street leaned in too close, whispering syllables that pricked her ears. Each face lingered too long, unsettlingly real, before morphing into grotesque parodies, pulling her own reflection into a funhouse of terror. Limbs stretched, torsos bent, jaws dangled like broken hinges. Eyes gleamed like shattered glass, reflecting everything yet catching nothing, staring through her as if trying to strip her soul bare. The scent of decay tinged the air, sickly - sweet. Vaethea’s nostrils flared. Every inhale tasted like metal and ash, burning through divine grace, stirring the vampire’s craving.

“Wolves asleep amidst the trees, bats all are swaying in the breeze, but one soul lies anxious wide awake. With its fear of all manner of ghouls, hags, and wraiths. For your puppet, perfection, white and sleep has flown. Be warry and up to your guard for the fear that surrounds and along. For the witch whose heart is an utter cold, will curse you, truth be told. She comes she'll go leave naught behind, but curses and bolds. Deep, dark forest, birds are silent for the night. Cows turned in as daylight dies, but one soul lies in a hunting state or disarray. With its fear of all manner of ghouls, hags, and wraiths. For your puppet, perfection, oh please shut your eyes. Lie still, lie silent, ut

Vincent's poem thus; When I too long have looked upon your face, Wherein for me a brightness unobscured Save by the mists of brightness has its place, And terrible beauty not to be endured, I turn away reluctant from your light, And stand irresolute, a mind undone, A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight From having looked too long upon the sun. Then is my daily life a narrow room In which a little while, uncertainly, Surrounded by impenetrable gloom, Among familiar things grown strange to me Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark, Till I become accustomed to the dark. I could no longer fight this battle with myself and Jeffrey.

He rushed, the sentence hanging in the air before he cut through it. "What Wordsworth poem did you want to read?" His voice much more gentle and slow. She took a moment to respond, her hands twitching back to life as she sucked in a deep breath as though she was waking up. "Ode to Imitations of Immortality." She spoke, her voice dry. She slowly turned and sat down in the chair next to the fireplace, the bright amber flames illuminating her face. He closed his book and put it back on the bookshelf before returning to the couch and leaning his head on his hand.