Trapped in snow,
My carriage enthralled.
Only sound I hear, the ravens call.
The wolves in the distance,
Their cries do tease.
Carried on the bite of winters breeze.
The trek is hopeless,
No end in sight.
I shudder fiercely in limitless night.
No fire to warm.
No stars to light.
Dawn approaches through snow ladden trees.
I cannot help but feel at ease.
Stopped to rest, my body weary.
Sleep does come, so dark and dreary.
My body numb.
No tears to cry.
Frozen dead is where I lie.
Knawed upon by bear and bird,
By wolf and shrew.
Consumed by beasts just passing through.
Bones lay picked clean,
Dressed by morning dew.
Fragmented, scattered, is where I remain.
Haunted eternally by the ravens refrain.

I fashioned myself a dress of black lace;
Dark and elegant, epitome of grace;
Soft on my skin, caress like a lover's,
My comfort, my design, a haven of covers.

They called it macabre - filled them with unease;
Dangerous, they said, termed it a disease.
And yes, I'm unwell, but darkness is my veil -
A reprieve from hell, solace without fail.
I am the tailor, the sculptor of shadows,
The reaper of melancholy my art sows.
And yes, it is odd, fragile, morose -
The marble thorns of an obsidian rose.

The judging whispers that follow in my wake,
Can't comprehend I do this for my sake:
The sharp edges they call jarring and cold -
They are my palace, impenetrable stronghold.

Where others see emptiness, I notice lace,
The gossamer threads of a misty embrace;
They are but blind to the kingdom of nothing,
Only see moats, and wall canons jutting.
My castle of ghosts, the court I control,
Those remain hidden, deep in my soul.
The siren song, my foggy lullaby,
The velvety clouds on which my thoughts lie.
It is morphium, made in my mind
Embroidered dullness only I can find.
The words bounce off my protective bubble,
Your bombs shatter into a gray rubble.
I blow it away, along with my fears,
I got good at this, during the years.

Give me some credit, I am no fool,
Where others would drown, I can rule;
I know not to freeze, when water's too cool,
The fire you'd burn in, I use as fuel.

Yes, it's a thin line, I know it best,
But I'm a trapeze-artist, can pass the test;
A veteran of trade, the air is my nest,
I've learned to live without getting rest.

And I know my limits, how far I can press,
Worry you not, I've survived on much less.
I'm not glass, disperse your concerns,
If need be, the lace to razor wire turns.

All my darken dreams, that made me scream,
with time, they started playing on my mind,
So, I started writing them down
because they were painfully real
I even started getting ill,
yet, they started inspiring me to write
just like Charles Dickens, and Emily Dickinson,
they all gave me a reason, no matter the seasons.
- Judy Emery © 1979 The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery

Parallel lines
They never go
Simply understood.
Longer than never
In a million years.
Long dreams
To always have the sun
Chasing oriental afternoon.
Simple life simply joy simply life
So much of time
Feeling so little.