A Knight's Sorrow

December 11, 2011

Silent Dreams

Filed under: Poetry — Harlequinn @ 10:11 am
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Do the dead dream a peaceful slumber?
Of goldern eras and gilded arches,
With verdant fields and vibrant roses.
Or is it visions of a darkly distopia?
Of choking mists and crimson skies,
And rivers filled with the moaning dead.
Creeping vines, dried like bone,
Crawl across the crackled cobblestones.
I hear the distant echoes of The Lost,
Singing silent of hymms for the past.
They whisper secrets in the shadows
Through shattered fragments of stained glass.
And as I dream the dreams of the departed,
I feel the icy hands of darkly wraiths,
Crawling like spiders on my pale skin.
I scream a scream of tortured souls,
But naught a sound escapes these ruby lips.
So here I lay, alone and afraid.
Confined within my wooden cage,
Trapped within this marble tomb.

Father’s Doll

Filed under: Story — Harlequinn @ 10:10 am
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I can hear “her” running around the house as though it was her own. This house. My house. The house that father bought. For me.

A Victorian manor large enough for two, if not three, families, and yet there is only the two of us here. Her, my tormentor, and I the prisoner. I have no choice but to stay in the attic, amongst the spiders and shadows.

Why did father bring her here? Why did he leave me alone with her? Oh father… where are you? I miss you.

I remember the days he would play with me. The nights we would sit by the window and watch the falling snow. I remember how every time he came to visit, he’d have a new dress or ribbon for my silvery locks.

Then one day, he brought her. A playmate for me. His little doll he called her, and that is what she seemed at first. Father brought her in and sat her in a chair opposite me before he left us alone.

She was so much like me in appearance, but yet not me. Like me, her eyes were green, but her eyes seemed as cold as ice. While I am tanned, her body was a flawless porcelain. Even her scarlet hair was braided just like mine. She was even the same height as me.

Even as sunset approached, she just sat there, staring at me, unmoving. Even then, this “doll” scared me. It was only when I brought my knees to my breasts did the real terror strike me. Her tilted ever so slightly to the side, and her lips ushered a demonic giggle, as though she was pulling off the wings of a butterfly.

Since then, I have been locked up her in the attic. That is, unless she wants to play hide and seek. But it always I that hide, and she that seeks. Though unlike a normal game, there’s a punishment for being caught. My once smooth arms and legs are now covered in scratches, cuts and burns from her “games”. The more I try to fight back, the greater the pain she inflicts, and even when she’s had her fill of torturing me, she lets me go so it can only begin again.

Even now I can hear her sing with evil glee as her wooden shoes dance their way up the stairs to the attic. Slowly, the door opens to reveal my twisted copy. But this time there is pure malice in her cold eyes, as she points her favourite kitchen knife at me.

“Father will be here soon, and I will make sure only one of us will go with him. He no longer needs you.” she laughs at me.

Slowly she approaches me, the moonlight filtering through the dusty window only enhances her unnatural beauty. The light that reflects off her knife seem to cast shadowy demons intent to watch my demise.

“No. It can’t be like this. Father will be here soon. Father will save me.” I cry to myself.

Before I can do anything, I feel the her hand on my throat as her blade slices at my dress. As locks of my hair fall to the floor, I cry for her to stop, but she doesn’t. Instead she raises the knife over her head with both hands. The moonlight that shines behind her makes her crimson seem aflame. My fiery angel of death.

All I have left is my memory of my father. All I have left is my love for my father. I close my eyes and fight back this one last time. If I die, then so be it.

A sharp painful scream fills my ears. Slowly I open my eyes and look at what has happened.


Blood is everywhere.

Blood is on the remnents of my dress. Blood covers my hands. Bloods covers the knife in my hands.

There she lays. Father’s “doll”. Her lifeless fleshy body laying there.

A single twisted thought runs through me, and I cannot help but do it. I slowly and painfully remove the eye hooks that cover my wooden limbs and insert them into her flesh. Now, she is truely a doll. Beautiful. Lifeless. And now a marionette like I once was.

But yet, I cannot feel guilty for what I did. Father would have surely loved her as much as he loves me.

In the dark, I lay down next to my lifeless sister. I care not for the blood, as it stains my silvery hair red to match hers. I care not for the blood that I can feel seeping into my wooden cheeks. Instead, I snuggle up to her because I realise one thing. We loved father just as much. I kiss her cheek lovingly as I close my eyes and wish I could cry tears for her.

Gone is the pain. Gone is the fear.

Father shall come soon. But for now I am tired.

Fae Harvest

Filed under: Poetry — Harlequinn @ 10:08 am
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Silent waters do ebb and flow
Beneath the stars and crimson snow
Of nightly fae and spiders dark
Do dance amongst the twilight lark
And what happens to the shrew of ekker
Whose giggles and gurgles doth do becker
The wispy wraiths of autumn rays
While standing stones do silent plays
Of shadows and light amongst the thorns
To the baying of the harvest horns


Filed under: Poetry — Harlequinn @ 10:06 am
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What does it mean to exist in this world?
This flying, fleeting, fearless bird
That soars above the danger’s crest
And dances upon the demon’s nest

And yet we feel this silent pain,
Of broken love and shattered dreams
That we fall so high on spectral wings,
To hells so deep that ice exists.

What silent songs we do scream forth
Of pain and love and friendship lost
That wakes us from our silent slumber
To this aching world of dreamer’s be.

The Weaver

Filed under: Poetry — Harlequinn @ 10:04 am
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A sickly spindle dances and turns.
All the while the spider yearns,
Of silvered webs
And silken threads,
That binds the souls of lost
To icy tales of frost.

Who weaves these scenes,
That hides and screams,
Of darkly fates,
And sickly dates.
Is it a god most perverse?
Or a machine so diverse?

With but a thousand eyes,
And a mouth of that lies.
With hands that dance,
And fingers prance,
Across tapestries that bind,
Of souls it pays no mind.

What beauty so grotesque,
Is The Weaver, I confess.
A machine so old,
A god turned cold.
With nary a soul to call its own,
Beneath its gears that click and moan.

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