Marie Marshall

Another poem from my old gothic collection, disinterred for the approach of Halloween. These poems have been greying in my family crypt, behind the rusting, wrought-iron gate that hangs off its hinges but opens just wide enough for a fearless – or reckless – adventurer to squeeze through, down the dark steps lit only by a faint phosphorescence, inside an ancient sarcophagus in which there appears to be nothing else but dust. If you want to snatch the manuscript, be quick! There are rustlings in the darkness, and the echo of what might be eldritch laughter…

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O Darkness, be my friend

O Darkness, be my friend;
…come, sheath my searing shame
in shadows. Comprehend
…the scarlet of my name,
the flames of which transcend
…the tinsel-gold of fame!

O Darkness, take my sight;
…with cold penumbras bind
these brimming eyes, contrite
…in error, hard-maligned
in judgment. Take them – blight
…their seeing, make me blind!

O Darkness, unto death
…walk with me; with thy wand
strike dumb my Shibboleth –
…my tongue dare not respond!
Be this my final breath;
…who knows what lies beyond!