The hours without light bring me images of the void

By FelipeArchi All Rights Reserved ©

Horror / Poetry

Blurb

An outcast tells between lines the origins of noises inside the furniture and the cursed walls.

There is no future

I am a dire watcher of the endless hours, as the black bird among the branches and the cold rain,

Allow me to tell my story to the world;

Once I was at my home, inside that place only my reflection and shadow were parts of me,

The spoken words were like needles on my fingers, without meaning, just the pain of knowing them.

Nothing could be change, however,

I can modify people; I am the architecture of events, never repeat, always imagining the new.

The past and the present are tied by voices, narrating history, molding decisions, there is no future,

Across the forest of death creatures are laying and horrors return with me back home,

My hands make, from the black wood, all my furniture, now my home is not empty when I hunt out in the woods.

At midnight, when I done hunting, the furniture begins to talk by noises I can’t understand, by noises I fear of,

The scratches, from inside the furniture, resemble the scratches from a family member buried alive.

Torments, storms, squalls and rains could create stronger and stranger noises, I hear a hale person walking without hunger,

I shouldn’t kill,

I want to be a staunch person,

However I know me, I know my eyes, the house is cold when there is not enough fire, I know my eyes, not fire for the cooking, I know my eyes, not fire for my bruised hands, I know my eyes, they know me,

They see me.

My furniture is still, the walls are now less painted, scratched, cursed,

The fireplace is aggressive if it isn’t fed,

The black wood drinks blood, the black coffin drinks blood and eats the spirit.

The hours without light bring me images of the void,

I fall into the abyss of murdering my own image, my own resemble,

Obscure ashes on the fireplace, horrible reminders of their screams, funerals are my persuasion over violence,

I come from the scrubland,

I see from a lugubrious distant, the black wood for the coffins is sullen, sullen before you will laid inside,

At night I hear you, at night I hear your scratches for hours, during them morbid visions are lull, my mind knows my horror, and it wants to show me the impure.

Now I am part of the forest's nightmares.

Write a Review Did you enjoy my story? Please let me know what you think by leaving a review! Thanks, FelipeArchi
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