A house is a tomb for memories
for love and hate and ire
and the Earth will eat it greedily
with water, time, and fire.
But the stain of men can linger on
turning black the earth itself
and what wicked depths a man can find
when his mind becomes his hell.
What thoughts can live in the turgid black
may live yet fuller by light of day.
What happens to our dreams when we die?
Do they linger in the sewer of the mind,
as the mind, itself decays?
Where do our nightmares go
when the dreams have long since passed?
and what bitter things might lumber, slow,
out of the dark their shadows' cast?
When our fears parade our flesh
a masquerade of muted cries,
paranoia, living depths that
no good thing could near survive.
What fetid things might utter forth
like poison from a wound
when all the world has turned its back
on a once thought quiet tomb?
About the Creator
Veris Marock
I've been a writer since I was a child. I had my first story published in 2019 in a short horror story collection and I've been working to expand my horizons since then. My primary interests are horror and fantasy.
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The chipped stone slope caused unbearable footing. I slid, skirting on my heels. I cast my shield, relinquishing my guard to stay upright. Left with my double-edge and a prayer to the maker, I skated toward my objective. The earthly stubble gave way to solid ground. I found myself restored, a trail of dust in my wake.
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