Disclaimer/ Prologue

The poetry contained within these pages delves into the depths of the human psyche, exploring themes of darkness, the macabre, and visceral horror. These works are crafted to evoke strong emotions and provoke thought, often venturing into the realms of the unsettling and the eerie.

Reader Discretion Advised

The content herein may not be suitable for all audiences. It includes depictions of death, despair, and other grim subjects that may be disturbing to some readers. Those with sensitivities to such themes are advised to proceed with caution.

Artistic Expression

These poems are a form of artistic expression and are not intended to glorify or promote violence, self-harm, or any form of destructive behavior. They are meant to provide a safe space for exploring the darker aspects of existence through the lens of gothic and macabre literature.

Mental Health

If you find yourself affected by the themes explored in these works, please seek support from friends, family, or mental health professionals. Remember, you are not alone..

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Tesseract of Macabre

In the stygian, seeping solitude of my confinement, the umbral specters dance and coil around me, living embodiments of malevolence.

The air is pregnant with the miasma of decay and corruption, a vile ambrosia that invades my senses, stirring the depths of my consciousness.

My psyche, once a keen blade of manipulation and guile, now teeters on the precipice of lunacy, as the memories of that accursed night replay in a grotesque, surreal tapestry within my mind’s eye.

The box, that damned and desolate box, had appeared so harmless initially.

Sly as a fox, I would have never... ever unlocked.

A simple, unadorned vessel, abandoned on the porch like a malignant offering from an anonymous benefactor.

My husband, dear, naive soul, had dismissed it as a jest, but I had perceived something...amiss, as he went about his day.

I sensed a presence lurking beneath the veneer, waiting to unfurl its dark petals, to unleash a horror beyond comprehension.

And then, I had opened it.

The black spores, akin to minuscule, baleful wraiths, had erupted forth in a noxious cloud, seeking to claim me as their own, enveloping me in their shroud.

I had inhaled, and in that moment, my reality had metamorphosed into a grotesquerie surreal horror picturesque.

My eyes, once bright and inquisitive, had morphed into obsidian mirrors, reflecting the very darkness that had taken root within my soul.

In that state, I had committed unspeakable atrocities, my body moving of its own volition, driven by a ravenous, baleful force, for destruction and chaos to unfurl.

My husband, my poor, innocent husband, had been the first to fall, his screams reverberating through our home as I...as I... but the specifics of that night are of little import now.

The images, however, are etched into my mind like acid on copper.

I see myself, my hands moving with a life of their own, tearing at my husband's flesh like a rabid beast, ripping muscle from bone, all within the confines of our home.

I see the look of terror in his eyes as I tear his throat out with my bare hands, the sound of his gurgling cries echoing through the silence.

I see the arterial spray on the walls, the floor, the ceiling, a gruesome, macabre tableau fresco.

And I see the aftermath, the constabulary, the trial, the verdict.

Guilty, they had declared, as if the very fabric of reality had been rent asunder by my actions. And now, here I sit, awaiting my fate, as the darkness within me continues to grow, a living, breathing entity that whispers sweet nothings.

Final meal, and then, I see it.

The box.

It stands before me, a monolith of malevolence, its presence both captivating and repellent.

A twisted grin spreads across my visage, a sense of elation and awe.

"Welcome back, old friend," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the sound of my own ragged breathing. "I see you've come to collect me. To take me on the next stage of our journey into the very heart of madness."

As I speak, I feel the darkness within me stirring, a creeping, crawling sense of horror that threatens to consume me whole.

The box, of course, says nothing.

But I sense its presence, its power, and its dark, eternal will.

The box begins to... shift, its surface rippling and flowing like a living thing.

The air around it seems to distort, as if reality itself is bending to accommodate its presence.

And from within its depths, a low, pulsing hum begins to emanate, a sound that vibrates through every cell in my body, calling to me, summoning me...

I rise, my movements stiff and jerky, my eyes fixed on the box as if entranced.

And as I approach it, the darkness within me coalesces, taking on a life of its own.

I am the vessel, the box... the box is the catalyst.

Together, we will unleash a horror beyond comprehension, a crimson requiem that will echo through eternity, a thanatopsis of sinew and flesh ripped from bone.

Magnificent.

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