Oliver Black's Blog (12)

This is my last word, and I hope that you hear it.

It's the least you could do.

This is the last time; I've finally accepted.

All I say is nothing short of true:

You left a wound so deep, it seems unreal;

I bled so fast, it seemed I had no hope to heal.

It's all that I could do to stay alive

when my heart didn't want to survive.

This is the result when

somebody's soul has been

shredded up to vapors in the air.

When…

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Mary Ellen's mind raced. She couldn't make it to the front door, there was no back door, and no windows on the first floor, but for the ceiling of the ballroom. Upstairs, though...

 

She ran for the western stairs, adrenaline pushing her to go faster as the monster tore through the house looking for her. Up she ran, heels thudding loudly against the wood, John not far behind her. At the landing, she dashed to the first window she saw in the hall. The drop was too far; she might…

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    Mary Ellen was in love. She gazed up at John in complete adoration as they twirled around the dance floor.

The ceiling, made entirely of glass, framed the stars like diamonds in a pool of ink. Mary Ellen, being one of the few wealthy enough on Earth, owned a home in the new settlement on Mars. Her mansion was on the outskirts of the settlement, almost against the large dome that surrounded all ten miles of the area. It was among the most extravagant of houses, with grand spires…

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You came to me upon the fighting field,

from your sheath, your blade revealed;

and long and hard we fought all day,

but at the end 'twas you who lay

battered across the columbine.

And looking down into your face,

despite my dwindling well of grace,

I left you bloody, bruised, and weeping

deciding your life was worth keeping

for memories of when you were mine.

 

 

That pretty, sullen boy always sits on the concrete wall;

His gray coat and jeans blend him into the background.

There's no one around to claim him as their own,

Just cold and dreary space, like winter clouds.

I stop, and dare to look into his forest colored eyes.

 

I ask him boldly "Why are you alone, sullen boy?

Do you like the silence of your own world?

Can you not abide us lower beings?"

He doesn't smile,…

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Walking through a haze of wings,
The black and violet ill at ease.
A face in every dot and line;
They dazzle me, the butterflies.

Blinded by a cloud of wings,
My trembling heart is ill at ease,
And tender brushes feel so mean;
Deception’s iridescent sheen.

Drowning in a swarm of wings,
My crawling skin is ill at ease.
Defeated now, I close my eyes;
They’ve eaten me, the butterflies.

Romance is dead!
You know it's true.
All that people want instead:
A sexy stud or whore to screw.
"Luscious", "Lovely", "Sensuous"
has been replaced by "Piece of ass".
I hoped that love might live. Alas!
Poor Romance has breathed its last.

'Twas I that killed the Walrus;

And in truth, he had it coming.

How dare he act so high above us!

How dare he say that he is king!

Too long the murderous fiend he's played,

And hid behind a friendly screen!

First the tragic oyster parade,

And now the Carpenter in a ravine!

His killing rampage had to end,

And after a glass of drugged liqueur,

I took my dagger firm in hand

And finished off the scornful cur.

The sea is peaceful once again

With…

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Horror calls as Darkness falls,
and I am far from sleeping.
Daylight's corpse
claws at my door,
keeping me from dreaming.
How inclement the dark can be
when Midnight's fiends are after me.
Will they ever leave me be?

I woke up this morning,

4 am, the radio was playing.

It filled my empty head with static

As I rose from the flat schematic

Layout of faded cotton sheets.

I shuffled through the bedroom,

Trudged into the bathroom for a drink.

My heart seemed to drain away

With the water from my sink.

And when I dared to take a glance,

My eyes met the mirrored glass;

There stood a demon in my place.

It’s eyes were cracked,

It’s lips were… Continue

Snow spread across the land:
blank pages in a new diary.
When the temperature rises just a bit
we'll go outside to write
our own little history
in the iridescent blankness
of the snow bank.
And when the summer sun,
like a bright, hot eraser,
moves across the snow's pages,
the ink of our footprints
will bleed into the earth:
blurred up, watermarked paper.

Tricky things are happy dreams;
Their joy is darker than it seems.
The surface glows, but 'neath the seams
An undertow of darkness teems,
Where laughter covers endless screams
And bathes the mind in Horror's streams.