Goth Poems Novels & Stories

“OATH OF FALLEN WILL RISE AND START TO RAMPAGE.” “THE LIFE AND DEATH HOLDER’S LIFE WILL CLAIM.” “AND THE CLIMATE WILL GO ROUGH.” “BLOOD CONTAMINATES THE WATER.” “DESPERATION WILL BE THE SMELL OF WIND.” “THE HARVESTRY OF LIFE WILL BE IN DESTRUCTION YER.” “UNKINDLED THE FLAME AND BREAK THE SINNERS’ BIN.” “DARKNESS WILL SUCKS THE LIGHTS.” “AFRAID NOT, THE CHILD OF PROPECY WILL LIFT.”

I must have dozed off while I was reading earlier. The Poems of Francis Ledwidge – the moth-eaten emerald green book I found in the study – is lying next to my pillow, the gold-embossed oak leaves on the cover glinting in the lamplight. The last thing I remember reading before nodding off was a poem gran had often sung to me as a bedtime lullaby. That book of the page is creased, dog-eared. The poem is about a water spirit who died after falling in love, which seemed to be one of Francis Ledwidge’s favorite themes – doomed love, tragic, beautiful maidens and lots and lots of flowers.

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

wonder plants. perfumed by poetry or—philosophy. the Ecosystem, the still neon-twinkling thought of. the world: you & me & this apparition of faces, Notre Dame burning out of time w/ Kreymborg flowers all phrasally rooted to the print composition of ‘vers libertines’ in Others. where is the Other in The Waste Pound & Other Poems? subjected to, quarterly slicing open, the social subjectile: my dear abiotic of the super blood wolf moon, Make it new!

Actually she never liked excessive interactions with other people. "You can see over there is the library. Over there, the Witch class. The moss green building is Sirens class. Well, next to it is the Vampire class. Then ...." Louisa explained all details of the existing buildings inside the Gothic Academy, while Lyla listened lazily. "Over there, the mixed class. It is held once a week." Louisa continued.

A shuffle followed from her end. “I’m sorry, you just said something I’m not aware of,” I shot back. “And I’m sure you understand why I’m asking.” Lena hesitated. “The Goth is the dreaded spirit of the Crimson Circle. It can possess you through your deepest desires. When you said Xavier was lost, I thought you meant that the Goth had possessed him.” “What, no!” “The Goth is the common unionizing spirit of the Crimson Circle members,” Lena continued. “For quite a few years, the Goth hasn’t found a suitable host to make it into the world. It’s why not too many people know about it.”

In dedication to Born By Power is a series of poem fixed within chapters of the book. The first was relating to Chaos And Apocalypse, which pretty much revealed a lot about the uprise of hell. This is the second and is themed on the horrific nature of Halloween and written with relativeness to hell. What does this hold to unviel? Who knows. Screams of Halloween Halloween, Halloween, Soft screams of blood chime, The period of dark, The day of ghouls, demons and imps,

They sang of the fallen warrior, relishing in the pain of his loss, but also of the ones they hadn't found, the ones who were lost or missing. *You take your sweet little time cause it's all you've got,A darker day, a total eclipse, Snow falls on a borderline crime yet it's somehow not ,A plea of mercy lingers on these frozen lips,Why can't you just let me in and be?Poseidon sends his waves to drag me far out to sea* *If you could only see the beast you've made of me I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free Screaming in the dark, I howl when we're apart Drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart*

When I turned to follow them, I saw the red congregation marching along the shoreline toward the golden gates of the city. A faint song floated along the air, filling my head with its melancholy tune. It wasn’t one of our songs. That much was apparent. The somber tune lacked Johnny’s edge and cadence, and the way the congregation hummed the notes gave it a funerary quality: “Songs that the Hyades shall sing / Where flap the tatters of the King / Must die unheard in / Dim Carcosa.”