Poems

The Last Sunday The hymnal’s open to a page I’ve memorized for twenty years,the words still fit my mouthbut not the cavity behind my sternum anymore,light comes through the window like it always has,indifferent and gold,and I sit with my hands in my lap like two small animals gone cold.The pew is oak and hard, […]

The Keeper of Night’s Glow In the black depth of night where shadows plot and creepThere stands a stubborn sentinel, refusing even to sleepA star burning behind the ribs, a lantern’s bold defianceWhile darkness whispers cowardice, the keeper mounts a stanceNot for a moment does the inner blaze flicker or falterIt flares, it singes, it

The Last Exorcism The day’s last light bled out across broken pews and faded murals,a dying fire clinging to the edges of stained glass that hadn’t caught the sun in decades.The church, an edifice of old stone and older secrets,exhaled cold air with each shift of the wind.Within its walls,time seemed to warp and collapse–every

The Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, California – Hollywood Beauty Gilded lobby humming, a thousand chandeliers all teeth and grinHistory nestles in powdered corners, paper-thinA hush clings to the marble, golden age lacquered on the floorPast the doorman’s nod, a chill creeps in–something wants moreMirrors gleam with secrets–Marilyn, lips parted for a lost laughGloved hands pressed in

The Interest in Maintaining Interest The recursive loop of caring that I care—the interest in the interest, the awarething asking of itself: do you still wantthis wanting? The self-monitoring fontof the second-order grey, the meta-level of the flat: the letterinside the letter, the thought about the thinking,the grey reviewing grey while slowly sinking. The interest

The Haunting of Hill House – Whispers in Hill House In the eddying gloom at the edge of the world,Hill House rises from the soil like a wound that refuses to closeStones veined with secrets, windows gaping–hungry for faces,for the warmth that once kept winter at bayand madness at a distanceNo hand laid its foundation

The Heart’s Beacon In the twisting dark where shadows plot and creepA heart serves as an unblinking beaconA pulse that guides through winding corridors, stone and echo deepDarkness bends and presses, plotting in every twist and turnYet the heart’s radiance blazes on, its course unbroken, never cheapCorridors stretch, blind and unending, traps and riddles by

The Haunting of Forgotten Places No one seeks the forgotten places by accident. It takes a hunger–a mixture of bravado and desperation–to trespass where history itself has tried to look away. The team–Sarah, Marcus, Amelia, Tom–came together as much out of compulsion as curiosity. There was an edge to their excitement,the sort that only emerges

The Gypsum Ghost The cedar planks are shivering beneath a heavy heatI find the residue of logic scattered on the streetA white and powdery infection on the graying woodI’d look away and run for cover if I only couldThe silhouette is resting where the sunlight used to fallA predatory message written in a clinical crawlI

The Gravity of Rooms The bedroom pulls the hardest.Something in the air itself has changed—thicker now, heavier, as if the moleculesrearranged themselves around his absence,filled the vacuum with a denser kind of darkthat weighs on the chest and the eyelidsand the back of the throat where the sparkof speech used to catch and light upinto