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I am a good corpse and I have done my demise.
And for all your dark enjoyment, here is some poems that are written by the incomparable Dean Koontz. He is one of my favorites.
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from Dark Rivers of the Heart
All of us are travelers lost,
our tickets arranged at a cost
unknown but beyond our means.
This odd itinerary of scenes
--enigmatic, strange, unreal--
leaves us unsure how to feel.
No postmortem journey is rife
with more mystery than life.
Tremulous skeins of destiny
flutter so ethereally
around me--but then I feel
its embrace is that of steel.
On the road that I have taken,
one day, walking, I awaken,
amazed to see where I have come,
where I'm going, where I'm from.
This is not the path I thought.
This is not the place I sought.
This is not the dream I bought,
just a fever of fate I've caught.
I'll change highways in a while,
at the crossroads, one more mile.
My path is lit by my own fire.
I'm going only where I desire.
On the road that I have taken,
one day, walking, I awaken.
One day, walking, I awaken,
on the road that I have taken.
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from Sole Survivor
The sky is deep, the sky is dark,
The light of stars is so damn stark.
When I look up, I fill with fear.
If all we have is what lies here,
this lonely world, this troubled place,
then cold dead stars and empty space...
Well, I see no reason to persevere,
no reason to laugh or shed a tear,
no reason to sleep or ever to wake,
no promises to keep, and none to make.
And so at night I still raise my eyes
to study the clear but mysterious skies--
that arch above us, as cold as stone.
Are you there, God? Are we alone?
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from Winter Moon
Under the winter moon's pale light,
across the cold and starry night,
from snowy mountains soaring high
to ocean shores echoes the cry.
From barren sands to verdant fields,
from city street to lonely wealds,
cries the tortured human heart,
seeking solace, wisdom, a chart
by which to understand its plight
under the winter moon's pale light.
Dawn is unable to fade the night.
Must we live ever in the blight
under the winter moon's cold light,
lost in loneliness, hate, and fright,
last night, tonight, tomorrow night
under the winter moon's bleak light?
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from Dragon Tears
Living in the modern age,
death for virtue is the wage.
So it seems in darker hours.
Evil wins, kindness cowers.
Ruled by violence and vice
we all stand upon thin ice.
Are we brave or are we mice,
here upon such thin, thin ice?
Dare we linger, dare we skate?
Dare we laugh or celebrate,
knowing we may strain the ice?
Preserve the ice at any price?
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from Hideaway
Life is a gift that must be given back
and joy should arise from its possession.
It's too damned short, and that's a fact.
Hard to accept, this earthly procession
to final darkness is a journey done,
circle completed, work of art sublime,
a sweet melodic rhyme, a battle won.
Death is no fearsome mystery.
He is well known to thee and me.
He hath no secrets he can keep
to trouble any good man's sleep.
Turn not thy face from Death away.
Care not he takes our breath away.
Fear him not, he's not thy master,
rushing at thee faster, faster.
Not thy master but servant to
the Maker of thee, what or Who
created Death, created thee
--and is the only mystery.
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from The Bad Place
Every eye sees its own special vision;
every ear hears a most different song.
In each man's troubled heart, an incision
would reveal a unique, shameful wrong.
Stranger fiends hide here in human guise
than reside in the valleys of Hell.
But goodness, kindness and love arise
in the heart of the poor beast, as well.
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from Midnight
Where eerie figures caper
to some midnight music
that only they can hear.
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from Cold Fire
Nowhere can a secret keep
always secret, dark and deep,
half so well as in the past,
buried deep to last, to last.
Keep it in your own dark heart,
otherwise the rumors start.
After many years have buried
secrets over which you worried,
no confidant can then betray
all the words you didn't say.
Only you can then exhume
secrets safe within the tomb
of memory, of memory,
within the tomb of memory.
In the real world
as in dreams,
nothing is quite
what it seems.
Life without meaning
cannot be borne.
We find a mission
to which we're sworn
--or answer the call
of Death's dark horn.
Without a gleaning
of purpose in life,
we have no vision,
we live in strife,
--or let blood fall
on a suicide knife.
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from Shadowfires
Night has patterns that can be read
less by the living than by the dead.
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from The Servants of Twilight
Is the end of the world a-coming?
Is that the devil they hear humming?
Are those doomsday bells a-ringing?
Is that the Devil they hear singing?
Or are their dark fears exaggerated?
Are these doom-criers addlepated?
Those who fear the coming of all Hells
are those who should be feared themselves.
There's no escape
From death's embrace,
though you lead it on
a merry chase.
The dogs of death
enjoy the chase.
Just see the smile
on each hound's face.
The chase can't last;
the dogs must feed.
It will come to pass
with terrifying speed.
The hounds, the hounds
come baying at his heels.
The hounds! The hounds!
The breath of death he feels. |
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from Strangers
Is there some meaning to this life?
What purpose lies behind the strife?
Whence do we come, where are we bound?
These cold questions echo and resound
through each day, each lonely night.
We long to find the splendid light
that will cast a revelatory beam
upon the meaning of the human dream.
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from Darkfall
A rain of shadows, a storm, a squall!
Daylight retreats; night swallows all.
If good is bright, if evil is gloom,
high evil walls the world entombs.
Now comes the end, the drear, Darkfall.
Darkness devours every shining day.
Darkness demands and always has its way.
Darkness listens, watches, waits.
Darkness claims the day and celebrates.
Sometimes in silence darkness comes.
Sometimes with a gleeful banging of drums.
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from The Mask
Evil is a faceless stranger,
living in a distant neighborhood.
Evil has a wholesome, hometown face,
with merry eyes and an open smile.
Evil walks among us, wearing a mask
which looks like all our faces.
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