gothic
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The Last Bloom
The roses had withered long before she did. Elaine lay atop the crimson velvet of her ancestral bed, each breath a brittle offering to the air. Shadows licked the walls, and somewhere beneath the floorboards, something stirred and sighed. The… Continue reading
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Litany for the Devouring Saints
Praise the roads of dirt & drowningWinding through the marrow’s prayerPraise the earth that drinks our hungerPraise the sea that drowns despair Praise the eater, the mouth of heavenAnd the eaten, bone & breadPraise the lamb & praise the slaughterPraise… Continue reading
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She Who Sings Him Still
My song shall not sound cold to himNo, it shall burn through the fog of the moorA darkened chain drawn tight with hymnTo pull him where the black tides pour In my deep wave, he’ll find your hairTangling in seaweed,… Continue reading
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Litany of the Crooked Hands
I start shouting with my handsbut my fingers are bentlike thorns twisted in a crownno saint ever meant Once, they held the holy breadlifted chalice toward the sunnow they clutch at vanished veilsand pray to be undone I tried to… Continue reading
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The Ropes Before the Grave
Hope for truth while warm blood still singsNot when your bones wear funeral ringsLeap—leap now—into the fire of nightWhile the moon still casts your name in light Salvation’s not for the tomb or bellIt blooms before the final knellWhat you… Continue reading
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The Briar Crown
They said Isolde was carved from candle wax and winter mist. Too beautiful to be real, too cold to hold. But when she smiled at you, it was like drinking from a goblet of starlight, heady and irreversible. She lived… Continue reading
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The Unthinking Hour
We speak of life beneath a veilAfraid to gaze too long, too deepFor thought, that serpent, loves to coilAround the truths we dare not keep To walk, to breathe, to wear the skinIs to forget the ghost withinWe dine with… Continue reading
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The Hollow Season
“If you were torn from me,” he whispered, “I could not bear what the earth had to offer.” Her breath hitched, a soft tremor in the candlelit gloom. The fire crackled, spitting sparks. Outside, a storm combed the cliffs with… Continue reading
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The Wailing in the Trees
My mother told me that owls in trees wailed the windswept night before her father died. I was ten when she first said it; her voice soft, but not gentle, as if she feared the words might wake something. We… Continue reading
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Through the Pale Door
Through the pale door, they comea hideous throng with burning eyesand velvet mouths teeming with duskshadows twisted in funeral lace They do not knock, they do not waitTheir fingers scrape like rusted ironagainst the ribcage of the nightunlatching every dream… Continue reading
God Is In The Radio 