Forgotten BeautyA city burns to ruin as smoke blackens out the sky.Forgotten Beauty by Anovoca
Soot falls upon a garden where its fragile flowers die.
A single flower stands here covered in a shroud of dust.
Was once a subtle beauty, but now stricken of its lust.
It’s yearning for the sunlight as it slowly fades away.
Wrapped up in total darkness stretching outward for the day.
It’s begging for clean water but its god withholds the rain.
Skies sending no salvation down to wash away the pain.
It’s hoping for the wind yet it may offer only death
The flames encroaching closer as they feed upon its breath
Will beauty ever return where the fire scorched the ground;
Or will the flowers be forgot and new life never found?
My One RequestDear pen, dear paper,My One Request by Anovoca
I have for thee one request.
To Write of HorrorTo paint a scene of mythic horrorsTo Write of Horror by Anovoca
Take dim lit room and darkest corners
Find a child huddled there, cradled tight in his despair
Silent here for not his murmurs,
murmuring out a prayer
He asks the keeper keep to keeping
While all his guardians tucked in sleeping
Ignorant of the shadows creeping
Slow across the hallway floor, standing now outside his door
Somewhere near the sound of breathing,
breaths too heavy to ignore
Then just outside there raised a howl
A distant boom and monstrous growl
Envisions he a ghostly cowl
Afloat across the yard in prowl
Come to steal his soul away, curtains hold the fiend at bay
With scrapes across the window scowls,
scowling out in its dismay
The shutters joined the fray with flapping
Hard against the walls their rapping
While all around began a tapping
With no relent unceasing clapping
the pitter-patter's endless lapping
Solace to the boy then came, raptured from this fearful bane
Slowly drifts his mind towards napping,
napping through a night of rain
The Dying GodDead men wrapped in festered clothesThe Dying God by Anovoca
Hung on crosses 'mongst the rows
Through rotting eyes the ichor flows
Somewhere a dying god is born
Left as fodder to the crows
Pestilence spreads and nothing grows
From dead crops the ichor flows.
The dying god cries out its scorn
In nearby towns the people know
From the abyss the thing arose
They crack the casks as ichor flows
To saemenkely and church they're sworn
And with the drink its will repose
Through song and dance and violent throes
Down gaping mouths the ichor flows
On Bastion's streets their deaths adorn