Words of a world, strange though wonderful.

Gothic Forest

A single page entry

could make a novel

of a thousand pages

written in vanity.


Layla’s diary is kept out of sight

from anyone’s tenacity

to view its delicate words.


It is the gold kept locked

button by button within her being.

There is no combination to this safe.


Just as it is with the soul and mind of body,

where flesh to flesh, bottom lip to upper lip

locked as a secret in her garden of poetry.


Forever perishing within the keeper’s soul,

if her body dies,

her mortal words succumb to death.


As the setting sun makes its last gasp

across a so dimming horizon,

Layla clinched her diary tighter to her chest.


“Is the sun my beating heart

and my fears the night?

My happiness sinks into the tomb that is the dusking horizon!”


Suffering a sting

of tear streams down her so delicate cheek,

her brunette hair swayed in the path of the northerly gusts.


The last touch of the sun’s rays

sunk into its watery grave,

tenacious rays screaming desperately

not to be buried alive beneath the lid of the twilight.


Her moment was on her heart’s last flicker

Layla asks herself aloud;

“what’s happiness?”


“Fate, within the pre-ordained future will constrain me?”

Oh, the receding daylight of the coming winter has arrived!

Only vanity finds itself warm in that of the oppressive night!


As of now her sun has drowned.

Decaying into the eerie night within its forbidding cold,

the nails of the coffin lid have been hammered.


The journey of glacial tears has

left scarring paths of black eye shadow.

Each tear icing down her numb cheeks.


The snow of the coming winter had come.

The arctic breaths Layla felt on her neck

have begun to set in and provoke a prompt death.

Layla knows she’ll await more deaths of her daystar.


There she stood on the edge of the rocky cliffs

witnessing the serene waves softly coming in.

Then they’re anger builds and charges

into the jagged rocks just below her; receding swiftly in the undertow.


Her soul; her island, beaten by constant waves of sorrows,

she’ll stand sorrowfully alone every wintry sunset

waiting for a warm breath on her neck

that’ll never come.


Her hair, dark and rich

as the earth in her dieing rosebush garden,

sways over her tear soar cheeks,

defending them from the gust’s relentless assaults.


The rosebush garden

Layla had teared over

feels the shock of early morning frost.


Fresh roses that once possessed the incense

to manipulate anger to love,

has begun to wither beneath

dominations of the chill of reality.


The new season

had brought the incense of battle

with no sense.


Can Layla sing?

A string of a note

makes the early morning bird flee in envy.


Would that cause her rose petal to bud

into her long-awaited peace?


Even so in her youth,

Layla had lost her velvety voice from long disuse.

She can speak to the world only by her gentle eyes.


She has a diary in her keeping that forever immortalizes her.

It is a diary of gothic poetry, holding her innermost desires

of adventure, sex, love and most of all… acceptance.


Poetry that possesses such precision

the absent minded feel the sting.


Aspiring sorrow in a diary

she fits quietly beneath her skin,

from the judgmental ways of the cold world

beyond her soul’s paradise.


The late night brought out the sleepless owl

and the shadows of the light house towered

over her long-lived home.


As the midnight air was crisp and sky starlit,

the cold once again held its reputation

of pursuing the warmth to hibernation

and frosting her roses to death.


Layla’s love for the day seemed to be nothing more than a vainful tragedy! Never shown love or compassion.

She grew up without her mother

but beneath the dark wing of her abusive father.


Layla had always given lenience to her father

when he would have one of his many tantrums.

He had never physically abused her,

it was emotional abuse. She just wanted love.


She just wanted to heal his soul of misfortunes

that he’s punished her for.

She just wanted to make him bold and powerful

as a man or woman should be.


She had no reason to.

She had always showed love when embracing him.

However, the heat and cold bonded

to make a fog that neither could find the other.


She then suffered a tear stream to the owl’s call

in the piercing light beam of the lighthouse.

As the midnight air was crisp and starlit, the cold once again held its same reputation to coat her flower buds with tomblike frost.