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Dark Poetry


Sugerplum Visions
Late at night as we lay in our beds
no visions of sugerplums in our tiny little heads.
Instead only dreams of those who lie dead,
rotting inside those little satin beds.
The flesh is long gone, the sunday best has turned to dust.
No pain will they suffer, no feelings of lust.
Still the living greive on,
always in a rush to become powdery bone dust.

Strange Ones
In the still of the night,
or dark morning twilight,
as you walk down quiet town street,
beware of those you might meet.
You may notice right away,
something here is not quite right.
You won't see them in the bright day's light,
they only come out in the cover of night,
when the clubs beckon with bright neon lights.
And as they tip their cups up to drink,
you may notice thier blood red lips,
against their skin so ghostly white.
All their features so perfectly formed,
shows no signs of the passing time.
Taking one good look into their eyes,
there is a sudden chill going through your bones,
when you suddenly realize there's no way home!

The Midnight Hunger
I open my eyes and the midnight velvet surrounds me.
Closing around me like a butterfly cocoon.
The owls hoot a hello like a long lost friend,
a constant reminder of all that I am.
As I rise from my prison,
silvery moonlight filters gently in
showing me the way to my window escape.
The hunger inside is slowly rising up
with the smell of sweet flesh slowly wafting up.
Just one more step and I'll have what I crave,
the red flowing river that races through your veins.
That is what I need to remain forever young.
So forgive me my love for what I must do,
Just lay in my arms, there's nothing more for you to do.
Thank you my dear,your gift is devine.
Filling my hunger with your sweet red wine!

In bed I lay awake.
Everyone dies, some die sooner.
It's been four days.
The blood staining my hands
I close my eyes.
Day break comes as I step into the small booth
as the scared words slip by my tongue,
"forgive me father,for I have sinned."
Brad Martin

In a death filled chapel,
with blood stained walls.
A long black coffin
Shadowed in night falls.
In the coffin it lies and rest
the wooden stake drives into his chest
the blood of many, free from pain
the driven life has been restrained.
Brad Martin

All writings are the property of Cherokee Rose unless otherwise stated