Woodlands Way

Waning daylight fast fades to grey, upon this windswept moor

Obscuring what lies ahead, through a pine forest, below a tor

Ominous thoughts may be alert and even find time to ponder

Dusk is settling though and the path leads beyond, to yonder

Lichen's sprawled from tripping roots, to embracing branches

As a lost soul wanders in spent needles, falling in avalanches

Nothing's alive in the rotting petrified wood, of crystallized sap

Death only lingers here, as it always does, in an illusion's trap

Someone's ensnared and they'll not escape, it's insanity's toil

Within this dark domain they'll desiccate, as they feed the soil

And for anyone lost on the other-side, beware the fading grey

Yet if they choose the path ahead, it's just the woodlands way

 

Acid Bath

Alas there's a dire dream you cannot escape, or forbear

Control as an oneironaut would, or even purge the mare

In this state of terror, you'll never awake, if you succumb

Drowning in the caustic reverie until you're lifeless numb

Balefully your throes may endure, as you lose your mind

As the demon that has found you, becomes well defined

The fire will burn, but without a flame, there is only wrath

Hideously devouring you in the depravity of an acid bath

 

Scaring Crows

Sackcloth sentinel, seemingly sequestered to a loam of wiccan throes

Cruciform posing as an effigy, your presence is beyond scaring crows

And those who impaled you, nailed you, to a cross of crumbling wood

Rooted in the crop, your petrified face hidden beneath a rippling hood

In the shimmering distance they're all around you, all the buzzing flies

Nefarious creatures, laying their eggs for maggots in your empty eyes

Gagging putrefaction's caught and wisped on a breeze and fills the air

Causing all the ravenous birds of a feather, to flee and feed elsewhere

Rotting occultists oblation, you were once upon a time, a man of straw

Often heard in many ominous nightmares and of what's passed before

Whispering in weird incomprehensible tortured tongues, as if to repent

Staving off those who gorge in a frenzy, with a scarecrow's last lament

 

Led-awake-mare

Loathsome eyes of a night hag are staring in the paralysis of my sleep

Evoking my bespoke nightmares, in disguise it'll idle awhile then creep

Disturbing and coercing demons in its stealthy sleight of haunting veils

As it leaves me fearing the cold unseen touch, of its fingers razor nails

With a blink of its raven eyes, it's there, darkness descends and worse

As I know its siren's silent screaming, is more than any demon's curse

Keeper of horror, stay in my paramnesia, trapped until night is morrow

End this phasm, still in my mind, for where I am, you must not follow...

My frightened eyes are wide, as a shadow slips through the open door

And now in pre-dawn's half light I await the daybreak, or a paring claw

Roused from my delusions, its presence has come at my sanity's cost

Emerging from my led-awake-mare, the oneirophobia's finally crossed

 

The Weeping Willow

There're farmers fields, of golden hues, passing through is a babbling brook

Hidden afar from here, but it's there, or somewhere else if you carefully look

Equanimity's shared, twixt the water and the breeze and the weeping willow

Witchery wise and ephemeral, it's where the nightmares will gently un-billow

Ease yourself down, to the feathery ground, relax and let your actuality fade

Embrace the sun drenched delusion, or be seduced by a shimmering shade

Perhaps you'll descend into the abyss, of inner space, in your reveries oasis

In your deepest immersion, flow with the water, that flows into darker places

Now while you sleep awake, you can be enraptured by the dragons flying by

Gliding, almost invisibly, into a hollow shadow, where more than light will die

Waylaid by the wondrous dancing of dappled air's cataclysmic kaleidoscope

In your new unwary state of oneirism, the weeping willow is for you bespoke

Lest you never rouse from the eldritch-waste where the pious wicked plough

Leave your corporeal being, to be possessed, beneath the dreamer's bough

Only then may you rest in peace, for all those nightmares you once mistook

Will be a fading light in the darkness, to be swept away, by a babbling brook

 

Escape To Estonia

Here (or wherever I may be) there are empty carousels turning in spiders webs

In a cavernous interminable terminal of lost nothingness, where life surely ebbs

In this place and time I sense incoherent murmurings, that I know I cannot trust

As I remember death-mares echoing back, in the palls of choking ash and dust

For 'here' (wherever that may be) there's a whispering voice that makes me wilt

It intimates, with a familiar intonation, that my final fate is to be cocooned in silk

And there's no way away from preordination, for there's only Nowhere left to run

In this memory, of a purgatorial otherworld reverie, where odious webs are spun

Wherever I am 'now', I know it's not for me, I would rather face the devil's beast

On some other's mummified mind (on the fears they'll find), let the spiders feast

I can't kill what's dead, but with my imagination's figment, I will ride the carousel

And be borne into darkness, nightmares, or dreams, if not, I'm sure I'll be in Hell

Even in a death throes nightmare, there's still time to dream of that distant shore

Whispered murmurings of immortality drawing me back, to a time of once before

I awake for awhile beyond the interminable terminal, but in the state of catatonia

Where transcendent hallucinations reveal that I can make my escape to Estonia

I can see a moonlit sea, from high above, from a deserted deck of Tallinn's tower

For I'm finally 'here', where I've always been, in the coldest winter's, darkest hour

And nothing happens (and never will) for I'm faraway from the spiders silky webs

As eternity unfolds before me, even the dream of death and time, gradually ebbs

 

Dead Martians

Does the story end, where now dead Martians dwell?

Extinction's risen, resurrected by a technology's hell

Ancient beings, long ago borne from an alien umbra

Destinies controlled by the digits of a binary number

Maybe in their epiphanies they sensed another land

As their lives appeared to them intelligently planned

Reinventing futuristic domains of their recycled past

Their time would be aligned again, for time's re-cast

In their surreal world of dreams and fake endeavour

Apophenia would've led them to a mainframe tether

Nothing is real for them though, like time and space

Science created dead Martians in a counterfeit race