The Book of the Dead
Within a realm already ruled by Death,
A Book remains upon a plaque of stone.
The names no longer fit to feel the breathe
Of life are ones which winds of fate disown
As being born without the right to be alive
Within presence of blades which must arrive.
This Book commands the Reaper to extract
The blood of creatures ready to be cracked.
Vapours rise from stench beneath the brittle ground
Releasing swarm of wasps which hover in the air.
Each wasp reveres the book with feelings most profound
As opposition to the souls who turn to prayer.
The wasps await the Reaper’s next command
As host of vapours in the heat of night expand.
* * * * *
Dark Clouds Hanging Over Us
Coldness spreads through the air as the sun abstains
Itself from giving light within a cloudy sky.
Darkness slowly spreads itself across the plains
As scents of evil are approaching nigh.
There is a rumour that souls of criminals who died
Upon the gibbets are passing through this town.
Although no trace of evidence is supplied,
Morale among the people is slowly going down.
Since last night a criminal’s fingerprints were found
Upon a skull years after the day he passed away.
Rumours of people seeing him in the town abound
Among those who fear themselves as likely prey.
Without a warning, peels of thunder are heard
Among people unwilling to walk into the street.
Around the deserted streets not a single word
Is uttered among lips which already feel defeat.
* * * * *
Standing in the Shadows
A hidden face is silently staring
At me as he is secretly preparing
To find the means of luring me in as prey.
The shadow of a pillar is one which overlaps
The form of a deceiver who sets up traps
For creatures unfit to see the light of day.
I hear the sound of buttons on a control pad
As the door is locked and I am left to status sad,
Fear is passing through each brittle vein of mine.
I hear a step behind a pillar near to the door
And lose sight of a figure which I abhor
As I feel myself as prey to sinister design.
Where is the deceiver who seeks to break my neck
And lay out my carcass as a worthless wreck
Which is only fit to be an object to despise?
Suddenly all the forms of lighting have gone out
As scourge of misfortune comes to me like a drought
Which erodes the lives of prey reaching their demise.
Jason Constantine Ford is from Perth in Australia. He works as an employee at a book shop. He has over forty publications in various poetry magazines, ezines and journals from Canada, the United States and Britain such as the Muse: an International Journal in Poetry, Bewildering Stories, the Fowl Feathered Review and the Cannon’s Mouth. The major influences on his style of poetry are William Blake, Edgar Alan Poe and Gerard Manley Hopkins. Blake’s ability to address the social issues of his time through poetry and painting has had a lasting impact upon Jason’s early years. For correspondence, contact Jason at email@example.com .