Tag Archives: dark poetry

Something has Died


I feel the husk of its dead shell
rubbing against my innards.
Grating,
poking
No piece of it breathes
yet it prods.
Reminding me it’s always
there.
Just sitting.
Drained and desiccated,
where once
it was full
to overflowing,
now nothing
but decay
absence
a void filled
only with
black matter.
A negative life if you will
The blackest of
black
Gouge out my eyes, then tape them
over times ten and
throw me in a capped well
type of black.
Something has died
in me
And I don’t know what.
But I want it back.
Alive.
So I go in search.

by Philip Wardlow 2017

 

Mystery Girl


She flits
amongst the tangled
night in dreams
that I have not known
Yet the desire is
there to partake
of the darkness
that abounds and
surrounds from within her
Mingle me in your madness
Tangle me in your limbs
crawling across your skin
With my warm lips
against cold body
gradually gaining heat
the more you encompass
me.
Your disguise is my own
you think you wear
unbeknownst.
I know.
Mystery girl,
still a sad
forlon whistling tune
hanging in the wind,
a shadow dimly cast by
a light trapped in a closet
from a future not promised
nor sure
she sits tap, tap, tapping
her index finger
on a desk that hardly
ever saw a word written
upon it.
I listen for
her echo
Deep, hallow,
beautiful
wanting.
I listen for it
in the night
as she flits and flutters
in the dark.

by Philip Wardlow 2017

A million pieces


How do you tell if you
are broken into
a million pieces?

And how do you tell when
you are whole?

I’ve cut myself
a hundred times
with the sharp edges
of my many pieces
as I slipped in my
own blood,
slick upon the floor

I have beat the walls
with fists used to
the abuse and the
comforting pain that comes

But there is a time when
the pain lends no comfort
and there is a time
when the tears falling
give no relief
It all just reminds you
how truly broken
you just might be.

I want to linger in you.
Caress the what-if of
our potential even if it’s
fleeting.

See some of the fallen pieces
In your eyes and pick them up
One by one
Knowing I will never be whole
and that’s okay
not to be.

 

by Philip Wardlow 2017

Witch Hunt


 

WitchsBroomsticks

 

Sister,  sister, you’re dead now. 
known as only ashes buried deep in a cold shallow
grave at the top of a lonely hill…
I saw you burn hotter than the sun, tied to a stake
worse than a dog was ever done.
Sister,  your shrieks still fill my ears from
that day, as they continued to pile on the wood to your funeral pyre.
I saw them laugh as the flames rose ever higher and higher.
I could only salt the earth with my tears for I was far too young.
Far too young  to save  a lighted soul such as yours being wronged.
My own darkened that day,
blacker than a shipbuilder’s pitch.
A witch you never were, but now
a witch I have become,
and tonight I hunt.
Hunt for the many ones,
and oh they will surely see a witch
tonight of the like they
have never seen.

 

By Philip Wardlow 2016

Hellhounds – A Dark Poem near Halloween Time


Demondogs

Hellhounds –

Known by many names,

Gwyllgi, the Dog of Darkness,

Black Schuck,  the Dog of Doom,

Dip, the little black hairy one who likes

to drink blood.

All hellhounds, demon dogs, omens of death

cast from the same malformed

misbegotten blackened molds.

An acrid, odorous smell precedes them,

brimstone wafts in their wake as they stalk

lost souls in the great hunt.

Paw prints burned into cold dead stone

give away their passage.

Eyes yellow of  burnished  bright gold.

or eyes of red, glowing like hot coals

Eyes that seek and search.

Be you the one?

Lost?

If so ,they shall drag you down and through

Hell’s doors where in your

new home you shall dwell

evermore.

By Philip Wardlow

The Dark – Halloween Poem


The Dark –IntheDark

I’m in the dark.

I look at it, as it looks at me.

Silently it sits.

The minutes  draw out to what seems hours.

I move left, it moves to follow.

So I stop. It stops.

The sound of heavy breathing, like the bellows of a fire

emit from its mouth. My heart speeds up.

It seems to be waiting for something. But what?

I raise my hand as if to wave. It waves backs.

Oh you fool,  it’s just your reflection in the mirror.

Calm your breath, its your own lungs you hear

expelling in your ears, your own movements which

track from across the room distilled from the dim

photons which bounce back to your misguided

eye.

“You idiot” I tell myself out aloud.

“Yes, you are” it answers back.

by Philip Wardlow

Halloween Shorts (Haikus)


ShadowPeople

The Dark needs my Soul
For it is feeding time now,
it’s always hungry.

********

ScaryDoll

I think it sees you,
I am sorry that is so
He kills very slow

*********

Think driven by the wind?
A lonely swing in the dark.
When alive, her friend.

*******

by Philip Wardlow 2016

The Goblin King Sleeps


GoblinKing

 

The Goblin King Sleeps~

 

In an oubliette deep

does a dank dungeon keep

the Goblin King.

Shattered, weary,

heartbroken,

at a loss to life he sought

and thought would crawl on forever

in a true vanity of his own design.

Yet, a silver lining

does shine on the pitted walls

which confine this man.

For he made a difference while out

in the world of light.

He ravaged, and wrought, bringing knees

to bend to touch the ground

and they fought, found courage,

bringing a change to the world each

in their way, good or bad

in the eyes of men

he brought a change,

and a reckoning was finally

consummated.

Now, he can finally sleepOubliette

this proud King.

And finally escape his

dungeon deep.

 

 

by Philip Wardlow 2016

 

The Crow Waits ~


crowwaits

The Crow Waits~

I see it on high sitting in a tree, a Crow amongst the sparse fall leaves
that yet hang to the branches, even though winter fast approaches,
no one told them it seems that they are dead and should already be on their way.

The crow with its pitted black eyes knows me it seems, for it calls my name
across the wind while I languish on the ground in my own blood which spills
from my body and forms around me like a macabre picture frame.

Funny thing, how the crow knows my name, a simple carrion bird waiting for
this warrior’s death so it can pick me clean and leave nothing but my bleached bones,
rusted armor, and a forgotten sword as my only legacy.

Long has the battle been gone from this place I now rest in, the victors have gutted me
like a fish on a stone and left me to the flies and the maggots to fester inside.

But yet shall I live, ever stubborn to die and only the Crow truly knows why.
I hear it laughing at me, calling me a fool for an adventure I sought full of folly
with only death to be met at its end.

It has seen many a fool I am sure and feasted contently before the sun has set.
But still I live! You will not have me fool or not!

So sit your perch and wait for you shall not have me this day or the next,
for even if I should pass these earthly bounds so shall my shade pick up
my blade and strike you down!

The sun has set and the night grows cold, the crow sits in his tree and
waits;  for it has seen many a warrior born and bred and knows full well their
strength, courage and the valor which fills their head, but it knows when dead is dead

by Philip Wardlow