Eboracum

 

Eboracum.

The city asleep,

the place of the yew trees.

Quaint Medieval streets,

dripping in the blood

of history.

 

Ghoulish treats,

a maze of shops selling sweets

on which to feast.

Eboracum.

where once the wild beasts

roamed free.

 

Ghosts still walk the streets,

they amble through the shambles.

Along the ford haunted by the owl

To Ye Olde Starre Inne,

to let the revelry, begin.

But soon the devil walks through,

as he is want to do.

When the gin and rum flow

and the ghosts have paid their dues.

 

They pace the city walls,

built to stop wild boars

from entering.

The same walls that couldn't stop

the Vikings

raping and pillaging.

 

Gargoyles leer from over your shoulders

every cobblestone their eyes cover,

every shop front,

every local haunt.

Making you feel like

you are never alone.

Always eyes

that watch over and point.

 

Stained glass,

cathedral Tower looming over.

Bells mark the hour,

chimes 12 times.

The cobbled streets are ours

to look up and gaze at the stars.

As the phantoms replay their fates,

like records of their dying states.

 

Back in the hotel,

hope of restful sleep to come.

Eboracum, Jorvik to some,

seemingly untouched by time.

Wooden beams and crooked walls,

a restful place when silence falls.

As long as the ghosts stay down on the streets

and leave you in peace,

huddled up warmly between your sheets.

 

 

Thanks for reading.

Please check out my books at Amazon.

Peace, Love and Poetry.

Kyle.

On Track

 

Where the tracks lead,

no one knows.

Overgrown with weeds,

on and on they go.

Maybe once in a blue moon many years back,

trains could have ridden these tracks,

but now they are just rusted and cracked.

Signs all faded, covered with vines.

No cargo, freight, or passenger lines.

 

Where the tracks lead, you don't want to go.

They were laid centuries ago,

not by human hands,

not for traversing these lands.

Cross these tracks if you dare,

the smell of sulphur permeates the air.

A haunting feeling fills your mind,

a whiff of sadness is what you will find.

 

If you listen closely,

on quiet nights.

When the moon sits lonely

in the midnight sky.

You can sometimes hear the whistling song

of an old steam train, chugging along.

If you happen upon these tracks as darkness falls,

just sit a while, as the ghost train calls.

Carrying the souls of the departed,

lost and broken hearted, 

into lands uncharted.

 

 

Thank you for reading.

Peace, Love and Poetry.

Kyle

Fairground

 

Scream if you want to go faster,

he twists the gears with menacing laughter.

The devilish spin of the octopus

dizzyingly turning brains to mush.

To join the hordes of the living dead

as they lurch around in search of heads.

To pluck the brains out of their skulls,

The organ music never lulls.

As they satisfy their hunger,

In this fairground of nightmares,

where no one wakes up from their slumber.

 

The looming terror of the Ferris wheel,

high above the carnival field.

From up here you can see it all,

the amusement arcades,

filled with coin cascades,

where you lose self-control,

slowly eating away at your soul.

 

In the distance,

the big dipper rises.

Serpentine into the night sky,

the tracks never seem to end,

they just sink into the ground at the final bend.

Smoke and fire devour the cars.

If you listen closely, you can hear a menacing snarl.

 

Take the helter skelter ride,

spiralling down to the other side.

Feel the fearful emotion

of the dodgems car crash motion.

As the announcer speaks with a wicked lisp,

His Snake-like face burnt to a crisp,

“Welcome to the fairground of hell,

why not ride the carousel?”

 

In their grim nightmares

and the visions within.

No fortune teller could have foreseen

the waltzers deadly spin

and the candyfloss machine

that spews out spiderweb threads.

In the fairground of the dead.

 

 

Thanks for reading,

Peace, Love and Poetry.

Kyle.