This Sucks

 

This sucks, he thought,

his throat taut and spraying crimson.

He only invited her in for a drink

and now she was making a meal of him.

Vision was fading,

this felt ever so degrading,

inviting her in took no persuading.

Being the victim,

this was not his domain;

He had never had to fear walking at night.

that his drink may be spiked,

or that he may be spiked to make a drink.

 

This was a real pain

in the neck.

He felt sick,

nauseous twisting feeling in his gut.

He only invited her in for a drink.

So easily swayed,

she looked so pretty in the moons glaze.

Thought this was his lucky day.

How many times the tables were turned

play with fire, one day you will get burnt.

 

Drained he slumped out on the couch,

like he's drunk the top row

and is out for the count.

(Talking of the count he's on his way)

His heart barely beating, his legs sway.

Vision blurred.

Lessons learned?

 

A knock, heavy and loud,

like a hammer falling.

Nailing down his coffin lid.

There stood in the doorway proud

the count loomed

enshrouded in a foggy cloud.

His voice boomed.

"Let me in"

 

The girl invited him in.

The count sunk his teeth in deep,

into the whimpering man's fleshy throat.

A gurgled choke.

Drained his last reserves,

saw his life flash in front of eyes,

in reverse.

 

So many bad times,

treated people like objects.

Committed too many crimes

A creep, a crook

a wheeler dealer,

just someone that played on their looks.

Oh, how he wishes that he could repent,

make amends for crimes of a life ill spent

 

 

Thanks for reading,

Peace, Love and Poetry

Kyle.

Weavers

 

Weaver of webs,

walking on eight legs.

A tightrope walker extraordinaire,

balance and poise as it surveys its lair.

Looking down to see what feast,

awaits his gaze upon these threads.

 

Weaver of nightmares,

dark as midnight

he creeps slow and menacing,

each footfall predatory.

His prey sleeps,

stuck in place, trapped no escape,

fated to be on the spider’s dinner plate.

 

Weaver of stories,

watches on.

Twisting the yarns,

enlisting the moonlight

to add to the tales spun.

 

Weaver of webs,

weaver of tales that spin through your head.

Weaver of threads,

that keep us awake in our beds.

Trapped thoughts

infest us with dread.

Like insects and bugs landing on strands,

implanting thoughts wherever they stand.

Throughout the night wherever they loiter

stories of woe they will embroider.

 

 

Thanks for reading.

Peace, Love and poetry

Kyle

Castle of blood

 

The monstrous castle looms,

enormous it stands, this ancient tomb.

Silhouetted against the moon,

air thick with the frosty chill of doom.

A skeletal coach with horses of white

appearing through the darkness of night,

to take him the rest of the way.

Through the swirling mists of grey.

Up high in the mountainous landscape,

clouds billowing, to make hard his escape.

 

Sweat trickling down the spine,

anxiety singing a chorus line.

But on he goes,

across the craggy land,

through the settled snow,

past the dead trees

and flowers that never seem to grow.

 

Behind, the road vanishes into the mist,

but he has no time for fear,

for here, in front looms the doorway

that haunts his dreams.

The doorway that brings those midnight screams.

The doorway to the vampire’s unholy lair.

A sigh, as he knows time isn't on his side

the moon is sitting full in the blood red sky.

 

The door creaks open, but no-one is there,

a cavernous hallway,

one lone candle lights the air.

The stairway, in so many dreams this has been seen,

In so many nightmares these labyrinthine corridors he has walked between.

The outlook is grim

here in front of him,

for this is no dream state

and no alarm will wake him from his fate.

 

He runs through the alleys of gothic furnishing,

the darkness around enveloping, confirming his fears.

He hears murmurings, echoing, menacing.

In the town below the church bells ring,

singing out their death knells

as the bats are circling.

 

Dead end, dead ahead,

a giant mirror covered in cobwebs,

resembling tiny cracks

just his reflection staring back.

But he feels a presence behind,

lurking in the dark,

he tries to turn,

but as quick as a shark

a stab in the neck,

two pinpricks of red.

In an instant his jugular is bled.

Stale coppery breath lingers in the air,

The faintness of death,

the last moment of his nightmare.

With his last look he sees the man,

blood trickling from his lips.

His vision blurs, and into darkness he slips.

 

 

Thanks For Reading,

Peace, Love and Poetry.

Kyle