The Damned Writer
By Sackett Snodgrass
The writer writes, and the damned demand.
He pens upon the blank pages
Words that he yearns to inscribe,
The ancient wisdom of sages
That hither with drink imbibed.
Shadows and specters gather ‘round he
Whom writes with earnest intent.
Grim faces darkened with glee
That haunt before the day is spent.
Candles lit and incense burnt
Before icons of wood and paint,
Our writer bent over the table turnt
Made for sinner and not for saint.
With moon rising over the trees
And the soundless sleep of men,
His pen strokes light as a breeze
As it dances ‘cross the writer’s den.
Words of horror and hell take shape and form
Without rhyme or reason,
The moving shadows swirl and swarm
About his heart of treason.
With eyes ever moving from right to left
His craft ever grows,
The soul within torn and cleft
From the writer’s demonic prose.
The writer writes, and the damned demand.
Upon the pages lies ink of night
That shine in the flicker flame.
Creaks and groans of the house of fright
Echo in the halls of shame
Where many a ghost and phantom dwell
Walk alone and afraid,
Hearing alone the churchyard bell
That joined their funeral parade.
Pulled from their earthly remains
They ventured far and wide
Laden with weights and chains
That clink and bang with every stride
For the house on Wallace Street,
That forgotten home of yore
For eternal dusk, of sleep and feast
That is the writer’s lore.
He knows not of what he acts
Though seldom acts free of will,
Seduction of melting wax
Upon brass holders does spill
The blessed and holy tapers
Seeping upon wood and cloth
With thick incense vapors
The muse that which was wroth.
The writer writes, and the damned demand.
Edging ever closer to the poet at last
The spirits of dead unhappy with life
Force out remembrances of past
Veiled as verse and falsehood of strife.
Aware of truth and unreal unfurled
Though the line is blended dim
With hands gnarled and knurled
The pen scratches upon pages grim.
Line and phrase does he write
Inept to cease and halt,
The eyeless dreams and lidless sight
Of ghosts within the vault
Forlorn and foul of being
Beckon with siren’s call
For terror dead unseeing
Through rotten shawl.
Our writer cursed to dwell
Before the altar gloom,
Fated to fiery hell
Of forthcoming doom.
Skin white as bone and hair upraised
With forlorn guise upon his face,
He utters out with eyes emblazed,
“I will never flee this place”.
The writer writes, and the damned demand.
Will we ever acquire
The strength to forgo that command
To write for muses inspired?
Dead and gone, rotten in the grave
Forever confined in box and tomb
Never should have voices gave
To escape their endless doom.
If you enjoyed what you just read and would like to see more here's a link to Sackett's blog
https://schreckencountyarchive.blogspot.com/?m=1
