Dark Poetry
Poetry by Darrell Treece and Ron Larson
Lost Within a Trinity; The Damaged, The Obsession, The Psychotic
                                                                                                  By Darrell Treece

It’s 3 p.m.
i lie on my couch
trying to sleep
but when i close my eyes
                                                     She is waiting
                                                Her Beautiful Eyes
                                         Those Bright, Beautiful Eyes
                                                Burning through me
                                        Like The Sun pierces the Night
Night - where i exist
                                                                                                  Because the Sun taunts me
                                                                                                                        Pointing me out
                                                                                “there he is! stare! gawk! ridicule him!
                                                                                                                        he has no soul!”
                                                                                                              So i hunt in the night
                                                                                                      the only Salvation i know
                                                                                                  is found where shadows lie
                                         :i can nearly see Her there
                                            Beckoning me Closer
                                            “Hold Me,” She Says
                                      “Love Me Like Only you Can.”

my heart yearns to Obey
i crave Her touch
my soul pleads for                                  One simple kiss?
                                           To touch Her with my own two hands?
                                        i would not dare to dwell in such fantasies

i go to Her –                                         Only As She Calls me
i so hate my whole world
it is covered by night
my only light when                                   She Speaks to me
                                                 Her Voice So Sweet A Melody
                                                                 Her Touch,
                                                     So Light and Feathery,
                                                 Then Her Lips are at mine-
                                           Simply Heavenly Nectar to my soul
                                                   Surging through my heart
                                                          Realizing LOVE
                                                        Stirring PASSION
                                                       Awakening WANT
                                                 But She Knows NO FAULT
my work is my own
                                                                                                                   as the want is devoured
                                                                                                         and the passion is suffocated
                                                                                                                and love breathes it’s last

                                                                                                                        The dark events here
                                                                                                                                     come from me
                                                                                                                                     and my steels
                                                                                                   HATE is a venomous nightmare
                                                                                                              without mercy or remorse
                                                                                seeking to quell the all-consuming inferno

seeking (shrieking!)    
Seeking (shrieking!)  
                                                                                                                                         and finally
                                                                                        She knows the silence of true peace
                                                                                                                And the ever greedy fire
                                                                                                        cool to a tolerable flickering-
                                                                                                               Is there salvation in this?
                                                                                                                            No, only more sin
                                                                                                                            Slick, crimson sin
                                                                                                     Chased away by murky water
                                                                                                                                       on concrete

          (A        SIGH                                OF         COMPLETE                            SATISFACTION)

                                                 Her LOVE Forgives this sin                            
 -i know i loved it
                                                              Through wide
                                                          motionless eyes                                     
- She loved it too-
                                                         She Saved me                     –& ended up in a dumpster-

                                          Reclaims me From the Darkness                               -Guess again-
                                                 Quiets The Shadows in my heart                            -temporarily-
                                       Gives Purpose to Things Lost                           -Gotta feed the need-
                                                      on the rest of this world                       -worms that they are-
Where do i go
so i don’t have to see
the sad eyes anymore?
(rough breath out)
so many terrorized eyes
                                                                                                                                 (lustful laugh)

i need to sleep
To read other short stories,
click one of the titles below.
About Darrell Treece

I am a married, father of five,
residing in north Alabama. My
current pursuit of a degree in
English Studies has reignited a
life-long passion for writing
poetry and short stories,
especially in the genre of horror
and the supernatural.
Young Goodman Brown
                  By Ron Larson

Adapted from a story by Nathaniel Hawthorne

Young Goodman Brown was an open, optimistic youth
Who set out one evening in pursuit of the truth.
He gave a good-bye kiss to his pretty wife Faith
Who was wearing pink ribbons which framed her face.

He soon found himself in a deep, dark forest
Where he met an old man who looked dishonest.
He told Goodman Brown that he knew his father
Who cruelly whipped a Quaker wife and mother.

What’s more, he knew that during King Philip’s War,
His granddad killed Indian babies by the score.
The old man then said that he was the devil himself,
And that Salem’s elite loved him above all else.

Young Brown felt these words were too hard to bear,
So he fled deeper in the woods, now filled with care.
He came to a clearing where there was a bonfire
And where the town’s best formed an unholy choir.

There was the mayor and even the governor,
And when he saw Faith, it struck him like a dagger.
He fainted; when he came to, it was just daylight.
He didn’t feel at all well, such was his great fright.

He hoped what happened last night was a nightmare,
But there near him was a pink ribbon from Faith’s hair.
And never before had he been a sleepwalker.
From that time forward, Goodman Brown was no talker.
About Ron Larson

Ron Larson is a retired
community college professor
(Ph.D.), and one of his hobbies
is writing all kinds of poetry.  He
has had poems published in
such diverse magazines as Big
Pulp, Westward Quarterly,
Aphelion, Soul Fountain, The
Horror Zine, and The American
Dissident.  His attached
poem,"Young Goodman
Brown," is from his recently
self-published book, "66 Classic
Horror Stories Outlined In
Rhyme."  The book is available
online, and his poem has not
been submitted elsewhere. He
thanks you for this opportunity.
For poems by Darrell
Treece and Ron Larson,
click here

For poems by Paul
Tristram and Richard
click here

For poems by Brandon
Jackson , Sarah Ito and
Denny E. Marshall,