Gothic Poem Novels & Stories

‘I will write to you,' she muttered briefly, Tilting her cheek for a polite kiss; Then walked away, nor ever turned about. ... Long letters written and mailed in her own head – There are no mails in a city of the dead. Robert Graves[6] Poets make maximum use of the language to achieve an emotional and sensory effect as well as a cognitive one. To create these effects, they use rhyme and rhythm and they also apply the properties of words with a range of other techniques such as alliteration and assonance. A common topic is love and its vicissitudes. Shakespeare's best-known love story Romeo and Juliet, for example, written in a variety of poetic forms, has been performed in innumerable theate

Weary ye shall be, Seeking redemption Like a bat, Blind in the day, Never to walk the earth in the morn Or ye shall burn A living dead, Bloodsucking monster, Causing the heart of your beloved to bleed In the turmoils of Hades Never to return!~~ Poem written by Afeare Adesuwa ~~~~~~ "I'm sorry, master." Dracula shivered, rushing down to bow. "It's not what you think?"

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o’er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower. The moonshine, stealing o’er the scene Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve! She leant against the arméd man, The statue of the arméd knight;

Would it change the fact that they both fucked up bye the will of destiny? The world of Gothic is not that easy, many secrets are ready to be untold. Be ready. Be brave. The secrets of Gothic, what would it be? Are they ready to discover and get this out of the shed? So many untold questions to be reveal. What really happened, to the forgotten era? *** ©Skies Ambrielle

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.”