Little Book of Horror Poems
Written by
Gregory D. Welch
Little Book of Horror Poems
Copyright © 2008 by Gregory D. Welch
This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to anything in the real world is a mere coincidence, all people, places, events, symbols and thoughts are the works of the author.
No Part of this Book may be reproduced in whole or in part without the written consent of the Author except for in brief quotation for reviews. No part of this work may be reproduced in part or in whole by any means whether electronic or other, neither shall it be permitted to any storage electronic or other, nor shall it be permitted to any other reproduction except for those either stated or granted directly by the Author.
Table of Contents
A Horror Carol 5
Risen Dead 11
Rambling Devil 15
Curse of the Nightshade 19
Wars Abound 25
Beast of the Full Moon 29
The Weaver of Words 34
A Horror Carol
They sting and tear as if made of cruel fine whips
Finding flesh exposed, they do remove, nothing left to compose
Suicide of a writer gone away, nothing left to make him stay, give it all up, pen in hand quivering, wondering if he should
A book he has heard in his own mind, for readers unknown he wishes to give
He will not kill himself, he loves to live, it is rather the craft that will die when suicide has come to his door and it is to the pen he will say goodbye
No more rejection, no more critics harsh words of unprofessional contempt, jealousy, rage and blatant anger
No bestseller, no smashing hook line, nor even the overly used cliff hanger
He was out, gone, good bye, fair thee well, oh writing hell
The writer goes to sleep and with little less than a peep, snores and roars into the night, whence he dreams of wicked things only a horror composer should know, ripping his mind open as if by a bulldozer instead of a nightmare or night scare
In his first dream the writer sees the Lovecraftian beast of yesteryear gurgling up in thousand eyed wonder, and elder god splendor, come and see his mouth less voice cries, an invitation in sleeping woe, not even the sad writer could despise, oh no
He went with the monster and beheld a wonder of writers weaving, authors hammering away, and stories that would never exit the stage, they were here to stay
The inspiration he felt was deep and wonderful, strong and fierce
He saw the greats of his genre one after another, some he knew, others he didn't, they were mighty weavers of a sacred chain they had all took place in, they were holding it up for him to see, a mystery, there was a chain with no writer, unfinished and waiting in unfinished stories hidden desire, come and finish that chain cried, the writer knew it at once and with deep sorrow sighed
In his second dream, the world turned black, and sucked him in deep, it was terrifying, a dimensional crack into the void, oblivions song, the hum of the damned, a thing that might have pulled his mind away, had he not been a writer of horror and knew the vice like grip, and pattern of its sway
It was here he saw the doppelganger image of himself, he must surely be invisible, his other self paid him no mind, dangerous looking keyboard on his lap banging away one story at a time, it was one of his favorites on the screen now, the writer saw, stepping in behind
Think of the joy that would be lost, the voice of a monster of shadows whispered all around, think of the fun times, and the reward of seeing them end, think of the madness you'd come to embrace if these stories found you unwind, giving up and surrendering, they'd have no place in a world, no reader for sure then, oh my, surely, that would be sin?
The writer began to cry, why yes, he said, it would be a foul thing indeed, and if he should do this awful thing and surrender writing, why then, he himself and not his writing, would deserve to die!
The black of the shadow creature swelled up and took him, and then came his third dream, it was hazy in grey mists of cold report, the face of an adolescent with a scoffing snort, teen steaming with sorrow, his eye, beaming and bright, that said his plight, there was no monster here, except for what the boy upon noticing him began to say, why mister, I have no tale to say, having never been inspired, your work was not done and I have no favorite story to read on the run, to fall in and know, to hate and love, my muse is dead, a dark dove, readers read to gather the flame of writing, without your written work, it is me you are smiting, don't you see, writers write as fighters fight, give in to your destiny and compose the stories untold, be not frightened, be not weak, be only bold, and compose for me the stories you have yet not told?
The writer woke with a start, words bleeding from his heart, he had a story to tale, a string of words to weave, a story yet to conceive, fate step back, a writer on the run with a story undone, no room to breathe, sneeze or slack, to his keyboard he did run, never to surrender, no suicide of any stories here, with the captain like steer, and passion of stories undone, he sat down and composed as only a writer will know, horror darker still, seeking his audience once more to frighten, horrify, terrify and thrill.
Risen Dead
Summoned from their sleeping slumber
They come forth from their graves in creeping crawls and blistering number
These were the dead, damned to the grave