Of Concrete and Glass Read online

  TWILIGHT

  The Darkest Hour

  A young boy implores his mother

  'What will happen when time stops?'

  'Time will never stop,' the mother consoles

  And within time the young boy turns into a man.

  The young man asks his teacher

  'What will happen when time stops?'

  The teacher replies, 'Time itself is not the issue,

  It is what you do with your time that matters'.

  As time passes yet again, the young man

  becomes old. The old man sits at his writing desk,

  Writing what has occurred during his time.

  He stops, and looks at the clock.

  He recalls his mother saying time will never stop.

  He remembers his teacher telling him what you do with time is important.

  As he lays down his head and closes his eyes

  he says to the empty room,

  'I meant, what will happen when time ceases to be...for me.'

  Our World’s Demise

  The man watches dully

  as flotsam washes up

  along the once pristine shore

  He can remember a time

  when the water was clear

  and not strewn

  with old tossed away scrap

  When the trees were full

  and lively, in which birds sat

  and sang melodies

  And the hills behind

  were dotted with flowers

  Which man and creature

  alike could enjoy

  The man climbs on his steed,

  disheartened

  It was not so long ago

  that the world was different

  And why has it had to change now?

  After centuries of no such change

  It is not how he remembered it,

  even a few seasons ago

  He wonders, as he rides away,

  into the darkening gloom

  how many years will pass

  before it once again becomes

  the beautiful world he once knew.

  The Pool

  Walking to the waters edge

  I see a reflection that is me, but yet not

  Within the slight ripples on the surface

  The face I see staring back at me

  Looks frightened

  The figure in the water moves

  Startling me as I stand still on the bank

  The young woman is clothed in white robes

  Behind her is a place that is not where I am

  I watch as the girl places something

  quickly under some stones

  And with a furtive glace around, is gone

  Again I am looking at my pale self

  Mirrored back at me in calm glassy waters

  As I turn away from the pool

  something catches my eye

  A small mound of stone

  Curiosity overpowers and

  I lift up a hot dusty rock

  Underneath lies an ancient scroll,

  torn and dirty

  As my eyes search the page

  of fantastic and sorrowful things

  I gasp, unsettled

  Numb, the paper falls from my hands

  Showing the clear sky above

  that the author of the parchment was me

  But yet not

  Jack

  Thick fog cloaks

  narrow cobbled streets

  under a tainted starlit sky

  clogged with tattered forms

  Harried whispers in the night

  hiding in the shadows,

  the unknown monsters lurking

  in the dank and crowded streets

  just around the corner

  vampires in our world

  crimson liquid seeping

  into cracks in the cold ground

  Statuesque

  Cold, hard eyes

  Unblinking, unchanging over centuries

  Dark marble, quarried stone

  Strong and unyielding

  To the passage of time

  Its grotesque yet strangely beautiful face

  The unmoving eyes

  Like that of its companions

  Stare blindly down towards

  Ordinary people doing ordinary things

  Its thick wings branch precariously out

  Stubby stone claws grip its perch for eternity

  Its once unblemished body now speckled

  By the gulls, pigeons and crows

  That make it their resting place

  Such is the life of a gargoyle

  The Tides

  Surging forth

  Like waves against

  a battered shore

  Swarms of people

  storm foreign lands

  For what they believe

  Hordes of figures

  flow down streets

  With signs and voices

  raised high

  For what they believe

  Like the pull of the moon

  on the oceans

  The tides of humanity

  will never cease

  Being pushed

  and pulled

  In the direction

  Of belief

  Lost

  Scattered like leaves

  Blown about in the wind

  A fleeting tempest

  Swirling cyclone

  My mind wanders

  Trying to piece

  The memories together

  Like cut and faded

  Remnants of film

  On the cutting room floor

  Found

  Walking down a leaf strewn path,

  Something catches the eye

  glinting, a small silver key

  A jolt surges

  Muddied faint images

  flash through the mind

  A time long past,

  A young girl in tattered dress,

  A rundown house

  The small key feels heavy,

  Like lead as it rests in the palm

  It becomes warm, starts to glow

  Pictures flutter behind the eyes

  A child's cluttered room...

  A small cupboard...

  A locked chest...

  The key begins to burn

  Continuing down the path

  The glow intensifies

  Picking your way down the path

  And into the trees

  Doppleganger

  I heard a strange voice

  in my head

  Strange,

  in that it was my own

  but not what I had said

  It seemed I was talking

  to myself, but

  not knowing what I was going to say

  What is wrong with me?

  I wondered

  But, I soon feel into

  a deep slumber

  The disembodied voice

  tortured me for days

  I did not know why

  I had to hear this other voice's pleas

  I tried to find my bearings,

  piece together what the voice had said

  It said for me to go to the park

  after others had gone to bed

  I followed the instructions

  and went to the park, after dark

  I waited around, but heard not a sound,

  except for the odd dog bark

  Then all of a sudden

  out of the bushes walked a man

  Not only a man, but a man that was me,

  only from another place

  The twin man spoke, in a sort of choke

  'Have you ever heard of a doppelganger?'

  asked the man, grinning evilly

  'No,' I replied as I looked

  in his red rimmed eyes

  'I don't know what you mean;

  'It is said if you meet your doppelganger,

  A person that looks just like you,

&
nbsp; That soon you will die, never to rise,

  and that will be the end of you.'

  I tried to move, but felt strangely weak,

  and I fell to the ground in a heap.

  As I lay on the ground

  The twin man glowered

  and said simply,

  'It is time to sleep.'

  Modern Warrior

  Forging my way

  Through the early morning gridlock

  Jostling and struggling

  Through the throngs

  Defending my treasure

  From modern pirates

  Surviving the scalding morning coffee

  Imbibed with the energy

  To face The General in charge

  The race to the deadline

  Avoiding the gaze

  Of the ranting raving wanderers

  As the day comes to a close

  Standing my ground

  Against society

  The Red Sky

  The hideous masked faces

  Leering, jeering

  A pair on hands and knees

  Hands point upwards

  The crimson blood-red sky

  fills my vision

  Strange swirling stark

  white shapes and patterns

  Dance haltingly

  across the red sky

  My fate unknown

  Nightstalker 1

  Skirting the light

  Blending with shadow

  Only sorrow in its thoughts

  Draining life and joy

  From all who encounter it

  Eternal struggle

  To move into light

  Swamped by sadness

  That which is

  Depression

  Nightstalker 2

  Skulking in deep recesses

  Clouded by fear

  With only malice on its mind

  Grasping at villainous thoughts

  Driven by greed

  No light pierces its soul

  No love wraps itself around it

  In a cloak coloured dark green

  From an eternity of jealousy

  The creature called

  Hate

  Peripheral Vision

  I once thought I saw a cat alongside me

  But when I turned around

  There was nothing

  It was just my peripheral vision

  I sometimes think

  People are following me

  But it is just my peripheral vision

  Peripheral vision makes it seem

  As if there is a whole other world

  That you just can't fully see

  I wonder if ghosts and spirits and such

  Live there, just out of reach

  I am reminded of philosophy

  When thinking of things such as this

  The paradigm about the monster's nightmare

  That we are all just a part of a dream

  And don't actually live in reality at all

  Peripheral vision makes me think

  of Deja vu, Things we believe

  we have already done before

  In this life, or another

  As if they are just outside

  of our mind's reach

  Peripheral vision taunts us

  Only giving us glimpses

  Hiding in the shadows

  Letting us believe that

  What we have seen may be real

  What if it is we,

  Who live in a peripheral world

  That exists on the boundaries

  A world that others can't fully see?

  Modern Vampire

  The pale powdered complexion

  the long cape and the fangs

  with glowing red contacts

  and sharp pointed teeth

  requisite dark flowing locks

  and sinister mystique

  This sensual being

  seems glamourous, seems fun

  Wouldn't it be cool

  to be four-hundred-and-one?

  The ideal, illusory immortal existence

  The liquor of life, crimson and thick

  Drained of this drink

  You would cease to exist

  Looked at by the public

  as if you're a freak

  You go to your dances,

  your clubs, your events

  mingle with introvert, Goths and the punks

  Draped in silken shadows

  hidden, mysterious

  You are what society whispers

  in fear,

  You are what they believe

  A Vampyre to be

  Reflections

  A water droplet is silent witness...

  ...Of the life and circumstances reflected within it

  From the mundane...

  ...small creatures rustling in the brush

  To unspeakable acts...

  ...discovered in desolate wilderness

  ...If only a droplet could speak

  Water Whispers

  Millions of water droplets

  Flow silently as one

  over the planet

  Millions of droplets

  Suspended effortlessly

  Above ocean depths

  The silence becomes

  Tympanic symphony

  In an instant

  Midnight Cove

  A little girl wakes in the middle of the night,

  Her room is filled with darkness,

  Save a lone light shining through the window,

  From the docks at the edge of the water.

  A strange feeling comes over her

  as she looks out the window

  All is quiet, and still and eerie,

  No one in the village can really say why.

  Many people live in the village,

  More than double the population

  How is this possible?

  Well, use your imagination.

  In daylight the villagers do their business

  The town seems ordinary compared to at night.

  It is only when dusk falls,

  that the strange things begin.

  The villagers rush home before dark,

  But they can’t explain why they do.

  It has always been like that,

  for as long as any can remember.

  If you are foolish enough to be outside past dusk,

  You feel as though hundreds of eyes are upon you.

  None of the residents have ever done this, mind you,

  As far back as they can remember.

  It is only the rare visitor,

  who won’t know the rules.

  Sometimes, when the residents

  are at home in their beds

  They hear strange screams and shouts,

  It is from some unsuspecting visitor, who happened to be locked out

  When dusk falls,

  that is when the strange things begin

  As the other villagers come out to play.

  In Midnight Cove, you are never alone night.

 

  Tree of Life

  Bridging three worlds,

  the strong and ancient tree

  Its roots stretch far

  Into the dark underworld

  Its trunk thrusts through

  Our serene and earthly plane

  Its branches strain

  Upwards into the heavens

  The Timeless

  Forever stilled

  Unmoving

  Unblinking

  Eroding and broken

  Lying in the dust

  Almost forever forgotten

  Personified ash

  And dust of centuries

  Vague

  A human shell

  Once full of soul

  And personality

  Droves of the living walk

  Solemnly past empty shells

  On ancient sidewalks

  Forever preserved

  F
or the future to

  Glimpse the past

  Starbucks© Society

  Fast Food

  Impatience

  Cell phones, distractions

  Early morning, afternoon, evening

  McDonalds© and Coke© sponsored everything

  Snobbery

  New is old

  And old is new

  Absurd clothing

  Trendy pubs and even trendier

  Coffee bars, Exotic cuisine

  Bookworm cafe revival

  Along with airheads

  Fast cars

  Spurn transit

  High price tags = status

  Everyone expects something for free

  Even if it is only whipped cream

  For their Grande mocha coconut Frappuccino©

  Under Starry Skies

  Mountains glow like dying embers

  Lit by the quickly fading sun

  The blue stream turns to liquid silver

  Under muted light

  As the colours drain from the land

  Small bright lights dance fleeting

  Through the trees and flowers

  Ethereal

  Hidden from the human eye

  Only seen in peripheral vision

  Under a starlit sky

  Is when the fairies come out to play

  The Blood of a Dead Poet

  The man that lurks in the shadows,

  Was once a poet, an artist of words.

  He once was living, with blood in his veins,

  But is now no longer alive.

  He spends his days lurking in the shadows.

  When night falls, he leaves his comfort zone

  To roam, in search of others

  that were once like him.

  The man that lurks in the shadows, realizes

  His victims do not fully see him,

  Only a movement,

  a flash in their peripheral vision

  They think they just imagined what they saw,

  But realize to late it is reality,

  And quickly, silently, all their creativity flows out

  As the dark red liquid flows heavily

  onto the soiled floor

  The man that lurks in the shadows, says to his dying prey, “You were once like me, a poet, an artist of words.”

  He sighs, as his victims' eyes look blearily into his own, “And now you will be like me again, what I have been for centuries.”

  The man that lurks in the shadows laughs,

  “I was once you, and now you have become me!

  Spending your eternity in search of others that were once like you. You will suffer in your need

  You will thirst for release.”

  The man that lurks in the shadows

  looks down at his victim, his prey.

  The victim with little strength, struggles to speak “Can I go with you?” they whisper.

  The dead poet laughs yet again, and says ‘no.’

  He continues in a raspy voice,

  “All of us must find our own place. We can never hunt together. You must use your creativity. What you had in your life, you must use in death, that is the only way you will gain what you need”.

  At that, the man that lurks in the shadows is gone, leaving his victim, his prey,

  to struggle to their feet, and find their own way,

  to lurk in the shadows

  in which they will spend eternity.

  The man that lurks in the shadows, his face wan and stretched with an eternity of struggle.

  He continues on, in his never ending search,

  For the liquid of life he needs to continue his torturous existence

  The man wanders for hours, until a soft glow appears on the horizon.

  He quickly makes his way to a large, green dumpster and crawls in, hiding in the farthest corner.

  He sleeps,

  but is aware of what is going on around him.

  No one disturbs him that day.

  The man that lurks in the shadows, as the day turns to dusk, crawls out of his temporary home,

  He sees a young woman, a painter he senses,

  an artist of images, walking down the street.

  She is the only soul around.

  In a flash he is behind her. She gives a little start, having seen something in the corner of her eye.

  She turns to look over her shoulder, and sees nothing, but senses movement on her other side.

  Before she realizes what is happening,

  she is on the ground in a wet pool.

  She falls in and out of consciousness,

  aware the pale man standing above her is talking.

  And as soon as he appeared,

  he has abandoned her in the street.

  She stands up, slowly, on shaky legs,

  And heads toward a shadowy spot up ahead.

  The man that lurks in the shadows,

  on his quest for a more substantial meal

  Realizes suddenly that he has grown weary of this, his eternal struggle for survival,

  “If”, he thinks to himself, “you can call this survival.”

  The man knows that he is no longer alive,

  and wonders how he can end his eternal existence

  He thinks back to the man that created him,

  he was, the man recalls, a famous poet,

  a man named Edgar.

  He tries to recall what the man had told him

  Of how he could end his existence as the bringer of everlasting death.

  The man that lurks in the shadows wanders aimlessly for hours.

  He climbs up a sandy bank, digging long, gnarled fingers into the ground for purchase

  Standing on the top of the bank, the man gasps,

  an ancient sound

  He looks out for miles,

  over a dark, inky black expanse of water.

  He can hear the waves lap noisily against the beach in the silence of the night.

  He remembers what it was that this poet,

  this Edgar, had told him.

  The only way to cease your existence, is to walk into the water, never looking down

  “Look only straight ahead,” Edgar’s voice rings hollowly in his head, “look towards the horizon, and,” Edgar admonishes, “only go when you see a soft yellow glow on the horizon, it will not be painful that way.”

  The man that lurks in the shadows,

  Scrambles down the sandy bank

  as fast as his old legs can move

  He walks close to the waters’ edge, and then lowers himself to the ground.

  He sits, still as death, legs brought up to his chin, staring out over the ocean.

  He waits patiently, hours drift by,

  Until he notices a pale yellow line slowly growing larger, where the ocean seems to end.

  At first, the man does not move,

  he is hesitant, unsure.

  The man that lurks in the shadows

  slowly rises from the ground,

  Not moving his eyes from the pale glow.

  He moves his left foot, and places it in the water, and then moves his right.

  Looking ahead, never down,

  the man strides into the water, slowly,

  yet full of purpose. As he does so,

  the man that lurked in the shadows whispers,

  “This is the most poetic way to go.”

 

  As the last of his head sinks under the waves,

  The water turns dark crimson

  With the blood of a dead poet.

  The End

 

  ###

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  Discover other titles by Caitlin McColl

  Under A Starlit Sky

  Little Gods

  Cogs & Corsets: A Steampunk Collecti
on vol 1

  Of Adventure & Antiquity: A Steampunk Collection vol 2

  The Dark & Shadowy Places

  Ex Cineribus Resurge

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