It shattered into a million pieces
Shot daggers through my heart
My brother and his anger
Watched his whole life fall apart

Bruised, broken, battered
the moon shone it's beam
Shot arrows off the glass
Aimed it's bow right at me

Silence stood in place
Where once their was a clatter
His ghost a solemn gray
A mug; my brother - shattered

Lenore’s Messenger - by D.B. Sullivan

Once upon a mornings’ splendor, youthful hearts so loving, tender,  
Bursting joy, a blissful courting, that rivaled the tales of yore.
Angels swoon and praises singing, multitudes of blessings bringing,
High the bells of heaven ringing, ringing, for whom they adore.
Bless’d were we, betroth’d, by Seraph singing for whom they adore.
Grasping love forevermore.

True and pure was our devotion, hearts enraptured with emotion,
Vast and deep, but still the ocean could not hold the love we bore.
Long we yearned for wedded living, youthful souls intent on giving -
Covenants and consecrations, bless’d by God we knelt before.
We upon the hallowed morrow, bless’d as all who’d knelt before,
Shall be wed forevermore.

But the tranquil eve was shattered, when a sudden spasm battered,
Waves of burning, shearing, searing, deeply through my ***** tore.
Retched and tossed about by quaking, all my senses howling, shaking.
Here my chest continued breaking, till I fell upon the floor.
Writhing, retching, convulsating, in a heap upon the floor.
Spat with blood and scarlet gore.

Wailing, I attempted standing, ev’ry ounce of strength demanding.
Agonizing pains and tremors left me prostrate furthermore.
Piercing lights and dreadful flashing, sordid sense of balance crashing,
“Lord above!” I pleaded, gnashing, “Torture!” - I could bear no more!
Left adrift and god forsaken, such that I could bear no more,
Closed my eyes for evermore.

Pallid, pale, my will succumbing, closer to a corpse becoming.
Cataleptic, body rigid, dying, lonesome on the floor.
Feeling now, my soul retreating, rapidly my senses fleeting.  
Woeful sobbing, oft repeating,”Save my soul - this prayer implore!”
With the final languid beating, “Guy de Vere!”, this prayer implore.
Stopped at last, and nothing more.

Weeping, mourning, lamentations, solemn, sober incantations,
Chanting dirges, exaltations, grieving, saddened, sorrow o’er,
Sacramental rites to aid in blessing she whom coffin laid in.
Blessings, unto God conveyed, in tolling bells and prayers outpour.
Debonair, this saintly maiden, requiems and prayers outpour.
Tombed in dirt for evermore.

Died in youth, denied of marriage, rendered now by hearsen carriage.
Laid to rest on dreary hillside - foggy, bleak and fodder for -
Root and rot, putrescence creeping, tombstone silent mem’ry keeping.
Ash to ash, eternal sleeping, there reposing furthermore.
Dust to dust with mildew seeping, decomposing furthermore -
With the worms and petrichor.

Wakened to a strange dimension, filled with anxious apprehension.
Conscious now with new awareness, shaken, dazed as ne’er before
Slowly, faculties regaining, as I struggled, vision straining.
Drunken, deathly stupor waning, I perceived what lay before.
Finally composure gaining, now discerned what lay before.
Darkness here and nothing more.

Frightened at this realization, swelling sense of desperation -
I, with dread and trepidation, ventured outward to explore.
Distant rolling thunder crashing, forked and fiery lightning flashing,
Wracked my nerves with savage thrashing, gnashing as I wandered fore.
Feeling deeply disconcerted, anxious as I wandered fore.
Godless night for evermore.

Onward through the tempest tearing, searching for familiar bearing,
Quickly then, I found myself upon a darkened desert shore.
Gazing out, with frenzied feeling, suddenly in horror reeling;
From horizon to horizon - nothing but a ghastly moor.
Nothing seen of soul or structure, desolate this ghastly moor.
Emptiness for evermore.

Cognizant of this damnation, pure and utter isolation -
“God!!” I cried, with consternation, but no answer came before.
Filled with burning desperation, here, I wailed with indignation -
“Why have you abandoned this child upon the Stygian shore!?”
“What great sin would cause thy God to cast me to this stranded shore!?”
Loneliness for evermore.

Longing, and for comfort seeking, no response from God there speaking;
Lightning all around me streaking, agonizing furthermore.
Addled with despair, affliction, at this godly dereliction,
When, a sound, a sudden diction, broke the silence heretofore.
Then, a murmur - plainly, faintly - broke the silence heretofore;
Whispered out my name - “Lenore!”

Stunned to hear the silence broken, startled by the word there spoken;
It delighted my heartbroken soul to hear my name, “Lenore”.
With this whisper disappearing, quickly I betook to peering -
Outward, nothing further hearing, here on this Hadean shore.
Sullen now, with disappointment, here on this Hadean shore.
Silence here and nothing more.

But, again there came a calling, much unto my ears, enthralling.
Only this time sounding wholly more resounding than before.
Steadily, this vocalizing echoed louder, hypnotizing -
With a boundless localizing, was a voice that I adore.
Here upon, I heard the voice of - “Him! My Love Whom I Adore!”
He doth cry my name - “Lenore!”

Discomposure overtook me. “Guy de Vere!” - my wailing shook me
With great agonizing desperation to embrace once more.
"Cursed place of condemnation, stricken, wretched desolation!”
“Unredeemed and lonesome, this deathly estrangement I abhor!”
“Stridently, this awful fateful separation, I abhor!”
Lost in dreams for evermore.

Sinking into woeful sadness and an all consuming madness;
Calling out into the blackness - “Deathly master, I implore!”
“Send this child of woe a yeoman to convey this somber omen!”
Suddenly here flew a raven - with no common mein he bore.
Demon eyes and plumage stately, quite a royal mein he bore.
Croaked and flit and nothing more.

Marveling at his emergence, and conveying sense of urgence -
“Counsel him of this divergence, this great painful message. Soar!”
“OH! My love, no balm shall lift thee. Somber last goodbye I bid thee”.
“Take my cries and render swiftly, bird, from this Stygian shore”.
“Carry now my heart and render tidings from this stranded shore”.
“BIRD! Out from this desert soar!”

“Find my love - alone, aggrieved and anguished, heartbroken and bereaved”.
“Find my love, whom by God deceived, and relay this dreadful lore”.
“OH!, BIRD!, be not thou craven and find him in his mortal haven”.
“Shall we ever clasp? Fly thee raven to he whom I adore” -
“Shall we ever grasp? Fly thee raven to he whom I adore” -
“Tell him sadly - ‘nevermore!’”

The Ruins of Whitby Abbey - by D. B. Sullivan


Hear now the tale of this grand and great structure of Whitby by the sea.
Down through the ages this abbey has stood on the cliff on this headland,
Silently watching and looming, its spires and belfries high above,
Over a town of such import that Stoker himself paid a visit.
Gothic, majestic, this beacon of glory entices the darkness.

Haunted by time, and the lashing of wind and the storms of the North Sea,
Whitby and Abbey have weathered the decades and centuries of yore.
Here, at the mouth of the river -  the Esk, where it joins to the ocean,
Seafarers sail from the wharf to lands distant and fishing for haddock,
Whaling, and building of ships and the berthing for Earl of Pembroke.

Harkening back to the time of when Oswig was throned in the kingdom,
Land for a convent was sanctioned and deeded in Six Fifty Seven.
Hild was the Abbess who founded the cloister. Monastics there were both
Women and men, an unusual system, but charity and peace,
Virtues she championed, characterized the community at large.  

Stories were told of the monks and the nuns and their saintly compassion,
Such that the size of the village kept growing as supplicants arrived,
Seeking a life of devotion and service to God. But tensions were
Mounting and growing between institutions - of Rome and of the Celts,
Each with assertions of how they should promulgate pastoral issues.

Representations of each of the factions convened there at Whitby
Abbey to stake their positions and argue the merit of their views.
This was the Synod of Whitby, and Roman conventions were chosen,
Further cementing the power of Rome in the churches of the land.
Codified rules under Rome was the fate - year Six Hundred Sixty Four.

Tragedy struck then two hundred years later when Vikings invaded.
Pillaged and plundered, the abbey was gutted, abandoned, crumbling,
Desolate, wasting away on the cliff in the harsh elements there.
Not until Normans had conquered the land and regained governance there,
Would our fair abbey become resurrected to prominence again.

Ten Seventy saw a soldier of Norman named Reinfrid visiting
Whitby and Abbey and remnants of structures that long ago were lost.
He was the one who brought forth resurrection and started to rebuild
Chapels and dwellings for monks to be sheltered in, here upon the cliff.
William de Percy ensured that the land would be properly endowed.

Humble beginnings with simple monastical organization
Started the earnest improvement. Development fostered the growth of
Village, society and Benedictine monastics’ hermitage.
Early, the site was adorned with a beautiful Romanesque abbey,
Serving the needs of the monks as they rendered their holy duties there.

Then, in the year of our Lord Twelve and Twenty Five, Gothic rebuilding  
Vitalized Whitby with purpose and passion, a captivating sight.
Masons and craftsmen who labored and struggled brought forth upon the hill,
Brilliant workmanship, intricate, stone carving artistry in the
Choir and transepts, the nave and the narthex, the altar and rib vaults.

Stone after stone that was brought to the Abbey was placed higher, higher.
Reaching for Heaven and towering over the waters down below.
Columns and arches of gothic construction were built into the bones.
Vaunted by townsfolk and all in the kingdom, magnificent in its
Grandeur. A Masterpiece rising like God was himself lifting it up.  

Up to the sky went the walls of the abbey with spires rising up,
Buttresses flying and tracery gracing the windows and panels.  
William the Conqueror pictured together with Jesus and Mary,  
Scenes of the scourging and Stations of Cross there in the stained glass windows.
Objects and relics lent rev’rence and sanctification to its soul.

Thriving for centuries, here on this headland, the abbey attracted
Scholars and pilgrims, both laymen and clergy to celebrate their Lord.
Such, was the thriving community, rooted in mutual respect,
Working and striving, affording their neighbors a tranquil way to live,
Here, where the blood of the ancestors seeps into the mudstone shale.

Henry the Eighth was the king who suppressed it in Fifteen Thirty Nine.
Papal authority blocked and dismantled, absorbing all assets
Unto the Crown and the new Church of England for total control of
Faith and of fortune. Now hobbled by edict and Parliamentary
Actions the abbey was emptied and shuttered, the occupants exiled.

Soon the monastic endowments were forfeited, leaving no legal
Authorization for maintenance, groundskeeping and renovation.
Absent the caretaking given by stewards, the elements took hold.  
Nature’s relentless advances of time and corrosion battered,
Weakening columns and arches that shouldered the weight of the structure.

Thundering storms carried bolts of bright lightning, while gales blew the roofing
Off of the parapets, towers and belfries. And decade by decade,
Ravaged by wind and relentless erosion, the graves of the churchyard
Started to topple and fall down the cliffside. And incrementally,
Buttresses broken, collapsing and crumbling, nature reclaims her.

One hundred ninety nine steps link the town with the ruins up the hill.  
There on the cliff in the fog is the shell of what stood for God’s glory.
Under grey clouds you can still hear the echoes of choirs and chanting.
Slowly the structure is falling away and in solemn decaying,
Watching the centuries passing as generations lived and died there.

Nowadays visitors come to the East Cliff to marvel and wonder.
Strolling the ruins, the fields and the churchyard, nostalgic hearts; women
Clad in black dresses and lace and pale faces, clutching their parasols,
Sauntering dandies in tophats and waistcoats accompany lovers;
Wistful of romance and darkness, they call to the ruins of Whitby Abbey:

Etiam in morte vivas.