Wednesday, 26 April 2017

Poem - The Book of the Dead


Rainbows at Night - The Poems of Clive Culverhouse




The Book of the Dead

It stands upon a dusty shelf
cobweb covered in shadowy shade
for not in years has its covers been made
to open for the words to glow
and glimmer in freedom
Its subject too fearsome for the reader to read
but once it is open
it lets loose a seed that festers
and pesters until the deed
renders and strickens all who sees
the story within the foul musty pages
of death, horror and terror trapped
in the ages and passing of time
for what the words say and what the words tell
is of a tale too gruesome
worse than a spell, worse than a curse
it’s what is unleashed, a living Hell
from the pages of the leather bound book
comes a Pandora’s Box of ghostly haunting
open and out to let off a daunting tale
that many never finish never reaching the end
afraid of what has been cruelly unleashing
The play on the mind and
the knock from behind with
the whispering sound encircling around
and the feeling that something has found you
but it has and you’re next
to be a victim of the text contained
therein the book, the book of the dead
The book of the ghosts and spectres
that feed off your thoughts and feelings
that leaves you
empty and wasted, the shell of the person
you once were but it will soon worsen
because there is no going back
as the pages will hold you
trap you and tear you
keeping your soul and your sanity too
until you are nothing
and what was you has now become part
of the book, eaten, devoured
and nourished to start
again ready for the next hand to come
and take the book with the notion for some reading
where once again it will be removed
from the shelf but until then
the book lies in wait
in the cobwebs and dust
patiently daring for the next reader’s lust


© 2017 Clive Culverhouse. All rights reserved. This poem is the property of Clive Culverhouse and may not be used without permission.






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