Poems

The Wraith’s BargainThe Wraith’s Bargain That night the world fell into darkness,and I fell with it. The cemetery was forgotten by time—broken stones listing like weary soldiers,their inscriptions worn to nothing.Each name a story buried deeperthan the dead beneath. The air hung thick with sorrow,pressed against my chest like shards of glass.Mist coiled between gravestones,a […]

The Winter WraithThe Winter Wraith In the dead of winter, the village sleptfrozen under a frozen tomb,each cottage sealed in white stillness,time suspended like a held breath. The solstice loomed—that longest night when darkness claims the throne,and the cold bit with sentient fury,as if the earth held them captive in its grip. They said a

The Trees Remember [Wraith]They gave us matching shirts with some corny slogan about giving back to the planet, bright green cotton that clung to sweat and pretense under a washed-out spring sun,The mayor showed up late with a shovel he clearly never used, took photos gripping the handle like it might bite him, smile stretched

The Valentine’s Day MassacreIn Rosewood, where February hangs thick with synthetic roseand every storefront weeps pink crepe paper,Harold Grimsby watches from his window—a man the town forgot, now watching it remember love. Forty-seven years of participation trophies line his shelves,dust-furred witnesses to someone he used to be.Each Valentine’s Day the claws sink deeper,and this year,

The Silent WraithIn the dim light of my solitary home,silence is never just a pause —it’s a living thing, a presence that breathes,stirs, wraps itself around the wallslike cobwebs murmuring yesteryears. But no silence has ever been this palpable,this deeply chilling. It started on a night so thick with fogthe streetlights drowned in mist,their glow

The Things December Says When Nobody Is Listening [Wreath]Yuletide does not speak in booming voices or choir loft thunder, it speaks in the quiet hiss of radiator pipes at three in the morning when the house has finally stopped pretending not to be exhausted,It speaks in the way the hallway light leaks under the door

The Seats That Still Belong [Wreath]Holiday table stretches longer this year, white cloth ironed within an inch of its life, plates lined up like obedient soldiers waiting for orders, forks and knives catching light from a chandelier that has seen more arguments than church pews and still hangs on,Steam lifts from bowls in wandering curls,

The Siege of the Sacred Slice [Wreath]The war for the last slice of pie starts quiet, like all good family conflicts, not with plates crashing or curses thrown across the table,But with one glossy triangle of crust and filling abandoned on a chipped plate, sitting in the open like bait, like a promise that nobody

The Orchard Of Borrowed Beats [Wraith]There is a clearing the winter sun never quite reaches, a pocket of dusk in the middle of noon where snow forgets to glitter and just lies there like chalk scraped thin across a forgotten slate,Branches cross overhead in a knot of black fingers, bark scarred and swollen, knuckles grown

The Santa ConspiracyUnder a flickering neon sign,Clara Voss hunched over her laptopin a café that reeked of burnt coffeeand forgotten lives. Grimy linoleum. Mismatched chairs.A relic that refused to die.She typed through the clatter,chasing a storythat felt like fallinginto a pit lined with candy canes. The rumors began as whispers —a drunk’s boast at a