Latest Posts
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The True World
The world unseen by mortal eyesAttainable by hearts made wiseThe sage who sees through earthly liesWhose spirit walks beneath the skies The pious soul in silent prayerBecomes the truth she seeks to findShe drinks the light that lives in airAnd… Continue reading
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The House That Crawls Toward God
They say the house on Saint Mary’s Hill rings its bell only on Easter Sunday, but no one remembers who rings it. Locals avoid the place. Some claim it shifts position ever so slightly each year, as though it were… Continue reading
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The Dead Keep a Garden
The baron built his house of stoneWith walls too wide for tearsBut I ran off through brush & boneAnd walked for seven years I crossed the creek, I climbed the moorWhere foxes howl & hideAnd found a gate of briar… Continue reading
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Beneath the Thorned Archway
Beneath the thorned archway, where the nightshade growsAnd bone-white roses cradle skulls in rowsShe waits where the moon drips red on stoneThe blood-born bloom where the curse has grown The garden breathes with sighs of ashEach vine a twitching, verdant… Continue reading
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Bride of the Hollow-Eyed Man
The first time Evelyn saw him, it was twilight, and the fog in the moor stitched silver veils between the bare-boned trees. He stood at the edge of the graveyard, where the iron fence buckled as if trying to crawl… Continue reading
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The Whispering Wisteria
An urban legend from Savannah, Georgia They say just outside Savannah, where the Spanish moss hangs like nooses from the trees, there’s a rotting plantation house swallowed by time and purple bloom; its porch sagging, its windows like dead eyes. … Continue reading
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Fragments, 4.17.25
How can the same world birth both roses & screams?I wear a radiant crown & a crooked smileOne eye weeps, the other singsI cradle joy & agony alike ** When petals unfold, do they speak your name?I return with the… Continue reading
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The Widow of the Crimson Tower
The tower stands where storm winds screamIts stones are drenched in dusk & dreamAnd ivy bleeds along the wallShe waits where shadows drown the gleam Her veil, once white, lies still, forlornA bridal ghost the years have wornShe strokes the… Continue reading
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Fragments, 4.16.25
There’s something quietly sacred about the writer who labors in obscurity. Much has been written about this strange devotion. We know the stories: Kafka dying with his manuscripts unread, Lovecraft’s mythos blooming only after his death. They are not anomalies, but… Continue reading
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The House at Withering Moor
The moor was mist-lashed, brittle with frost, and the clouds hung low and gray like mold on a ceiling. Eliza stood in the high tower window of Withering House, her hands resting on the cold sill, her breath fogging the… Continue reading
God Is In The Radio 