We left our hero
strapped and chained,
being tortured.
Needles stuck
in weeping veins.
Acid like pain ringing through his brain.
As outside it rained.
He knew the only way to win,
was to play the demons
at their own game.
To straddle the fine line
between light and dark,
to enter the world of nightmares
and tear it apart.
He relaxed, every muscle,
every aching muscle.
He felt them ping
like the strings on his old guitar.
And he closed his eyes,
welcoming the dark.
He thought of those
he needed to seek, he pictured worlds
desolate and bleak, willed them into being.
He thought of the demons, He saw the king.
In his minds window, he witnessed everything.
Creating a world that suited him,
and he opened his eyes.
The hospital room,
was painted in blood,
Torn limbs, littered the floor,
discarded like driftwood after a flood.
Unguarded, the bed now just rusted
and creaking, the restraints, dust,
nothing more.
He put one foot on the ground,
glass cracking beneath the sound
of his own muscles snapping into place.
Down whirlpool corridors
with sinking, sticky floors
he trudged, until he reached the front door,
and entered his domain.
The night, the rain.
He took to the streets, the pain in his feet
never reaching his brain, the strain in every step,
trying and failing to raise a sweat. He leapt into action,
A hunter after his prey.
He searched the streets that crumbled away.
He watched as monoliths of monstrous
menace mangled the midnight sky,
listened to the moons tortured cry,
and whispered,
"It will be fine old friend; I'll be with you till the end"
And into the blending shapes,
the former streets, he walked.
There looming ahead,
a palace of glass.
Demon’s head carved onto its face,
like a time-worn cliffside.
He pushed the doors with all of his might.
They crashed open, like a smashed skylight of midnight.
And he walked in.
Seeing the corridors and staircases,
twist into eternal caverns,
that descend and bend in all directions
an Escher painted world
of illusion and trickery.
But he knew which one he wanted.
The throne room, journey's end,
into the grand hall he walked.
The screaming king sat,
crown of skulls atop his head.
The watchman
pulled the guitar from his back.
Strummed a few chords,
picked the right notes.
The screaming king
lived up to his name.
The piercing sound caused
the palace to shatter,
the king brought down
his own reflective towers
Spraying the room
in glass fragments.
Evil lay in a pool of blood,
for the glass
had done more than smash,
It had cut deep into his throat
and so, the blood did gush.
The watchman didn't rush.
He just strolled out into the night air,
knowing that this battle had been won
but the war had only just begun.
The king was dead,
but where the demons lurk
there is always someone
that wants
that crown on their head.
Thanks for reading
Endless Nightmares out now
300 pages of horror themed poetic storytelling
Please take a look at my previous collection "Torn Pages"
100+ all new poems not shared here before.
https://tinyurl.com/KCtornpages
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