Muse of the Day
I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of beauty. Edgar Allan Poe, The Poetic Principle
All posts tagged: horror
Muse of the Day
It was a quietness that left the dammed singing.The dead can’t sing, it’s just a deception.Through a breeze, they murmur their tune.Is the breeze in the cemetery truly dead individuals singing?Chilly, blusterous shouts of shallow woes, it’s indeed them singing. Dead Can Sing Poem by D.L. Lewis
Muse of the Day
But I wasn’t mad or happy. And as I lay in bed trying to read, I realized that upset had been overshadowed by uneasy. I felt as though someone was watching me. I got so spooked I even got up to check out the window and in the closet and under the bed, but the feeling still didn’t go away. It took me nearly until midnight to understand what it was. It was me. Watching me. Wendelin Van Draanen, Flipped
Muse of the Day
A skull stared back at Sera, gaping dark holes reflecting the starlight above her. It was oddly beautiful in a way. The brain and face rotted away, and all that was left were the stars. Avery Carter, The Ghost and the Real Girl
Muse of the Day
This the year we are houses, lights on in every window, doors that won’t quite shut. When one of us speaks we both feel the words moving on our tongues. When one of us eats we both feel the food slipping down our gullets. It would have surprised neither of us to have found, slit open, that we shared organs, that one’s lungs breathed for the both, that a single heart beat a doubling, feverish pulse. Daisy Johnson, Sisters
Muse of the Day
Death is a beginning. A.J.West, The Spirit Engineer
Muse of the Day
Come ye viewless ministers of this dread hour! Come from the fenny lake, the hanging rock, and the midnight cave! The moon is red – the stars are out – the sky is burning – and all nature stands aghast at what we do! William Mudford
Muse of the Day
Certainly, the terror of a deserted house swells in geometrical rather than arithmetical progression as houses multiply to form a city of stark desolation. The sight of such endless avenues of fishy-eyed vacancy and death, and the thought of such linked infinities of black, brooding compartments given over to cob-webs and memories and the conqueror worm, start up vestigial fears and aversions that not even the stoutest philosophy can disperse. H.P. Lovecraft, The Shadow over Innsmouth
Muse of the Day
Your hair is winter fire…
Muse of the Day
Each October I walk into the woodslooking for bones: rabbit skulls,a grackle spine, the pelvis of a deerwith the blood bleached out. What diedin the lush of roses and mintshines out from the tangle of twigsthat bind it to the placeof its last leaping. The living lackthat kind of clarity. In late April,when the water spreads out and outtill everything is lilies and seepage,there is only the mystery of tracks,a rustle receding in the many reeds.And so the bones accumulateacross my windowsill: the flightlesswings and exaggerated grins,the silent unmoving remindersof where the glories of April lead. Charles Rafferty, Where the Glories of April Lead
Everyday Strange 