This place is the depository of verse dedicated to the enigmatic Vincent Valentine.
Therefore don't be surprised if what you find here is more likely than not melancholy and rather...well...dark.
Currently, one poem is contained within these quiet walls. Enjoy.



LAND OF THE DEAD: The 27th Year
The Valentine Variation

By Penfeather2000

Optimistic sunlight fingers reach warmly
Through age encrusted pane,
To draw cold shivers across still face,
And stubbornly prise reluctant eyelids wide to
Awaken once more in the land of the dead.

Rise to stand with aching heart,
To walk bent low beneath the ponderous burden
Of Knowing,
From grey room to greyer room and round again.
And back.
Garments donned a lifetime ago.
A feast of dried bread crumbled to naught
Midst an endless day's detritus.
Or has it been weeks?
Or months?
Or years?

Turn a leaf and ancient voices drone,
No candle held to the whisper within.
Seductive, silky voice grips chin in skeletal digits,
And breathes the words that lift high the lamp
To light the way on the murky path
To Knowing.

Rake metal 'cross metal,
Tortured screech to drown noisome thought.
No contest met to the breathy chuckle in ear,
A face in the corner of a glance,
Bloody-eyed, grinning rictus,
Clawed finger lifts and points the way
To Knowing.
Rake metal 'cross flesh to exile gleeful hate,
Withered heart crumbles down to dust.
Dark-eyed, Death merely steps aside.

Moonlight glitters through rain-splatter glass.
Staring eyes focus sightless on nothing,
Inner vision seared by Truth.
Bloodstained letters etched deep in stone,
Coward, killer, monster, corpse...
Though living on,
Already gone.
Acid tears slice pale cheeks.

Pointless breathing, futile pulsing.
All around transforms to ash.
There is no heaven,
Only hell.
For the one who treads living through
The land of the dead.

Spirit crushed flat beneath,
Black, musty walls choking close.
Agonized breaths rattle over silent lips,
Blind fingers grope and touch the rope.
Weakly tug the burning strands.
The bell rings and the bell rings.
Won't anyone hear?

Smiling, hopeless unawares stalked by Fate,
She who slips through the shadows,
And dances in the light,
Snatching at capricious whim.
No weapon will protect.
No ransom will fulfill.
Silent bones entombed in the coffin
Of Knowing.
Gods do not exist or do not care.
For the one who stands bleeding in the land of the
Dead.




Note: This is my poem. I wrote it. It may not be much, but it's mine.
If you wish to post it elsewhere be it site or message board,
I expect to be duly credited for my work and a link provided to my site.

Copyright 2001
All Rights Reserved

PENFEATHER 2000



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