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Kamael
by Bertram SparagmosI emerged from the theater to the street
The lane accepted me as her child
Stumbling from the red-carpeted miasma where phantoms dance
Toying with thoughts of permanence
How quickly my mind wanders
Even as my lips are stung by the winds chilling kiss
Endless hordes of overcoats careening to their own oblivion
Not an extraordinary man I witness
Dithering about in a black coat and umbrella
Obsidian was his body, but for his hairless crown
From his back sprouted wings of blackest night
Their horrible shadow encompassing me
How fast I fled as terror churned my legs, but he seemed ever nearer
Each breath a scream from the sepulcher
When into an alley I darted so quickly
Obscene terror clawing at my eyes
Readily I turned, and with walking cane as a Norse axe
Laid the fiend low at my feet
Darest I now saw, he wasn’t a beast at all
An open umbrella resembling wings
Seraphim from on high wept with me in that dark place
Wherest the gates of the white mountain birthed upon the world an angel
Ever slowly descending before mine eyes
Kamael, clad in green
Never drawing a single breath, dipped his wingtip
On the river of sickening red that seep’d cross the earth
With deft precision, flecked the crimson feather upon a square of parchment
In cinnabar letters my name he did scribe
The gates of hell creaking below 09/22/2012 Author's Note: One of my homages to the old horror poets. Also, I do very much like to hide things.
Posted on 09/22/2012
Copyright © 2024 Bertram Sparagmos
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 09/29/12 at 09:18 AM As a fan of all things horror, I enjoyed this poetic film clip. Would make a great opening for an entire novel. |
| Posted by Jody Pratt on 10/04/12 at 09:37 PM I usually don't appreciate the literal horror (more of a playful horror writer at times), but there is an elegance about this poem and it certainly brings justice to those that you pay homage. |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 10/04/12 at 10:53 PM 2nd read. Love the intensity and drama of this...imagery, right from the beginning: The lane accepted me as her child...to the end: In cinnabar letters my name he did scribe
The gates of hell creaking below. I can relate, as per hell, been there, done that, bought the T-shirt. Rock on man.
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| Posted by Johnny Crimson on 10/16/12 at 01:53 PM This is a place where those hidden "things" can breathe. Again, welcome. |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 10/06/13 at 10:13 PM October drew me to this and I enjoyed it fully. |
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