Untitled, for Eddy ~

No letter (L) for me fair flower for, to me, you must not be abbreviated.The (L) is for all others or for Laudanum, with whitch I sometimes sleep. The whole piece is overpowering like a narcotic. It reads slowly for me, like a meandering river, so each line is a dark caress... all the rush is down the road. You have not only succeeded but surpassed the set goal. I find myself darkly enchanted! My favorite lines are the beginning and ending of the poem! thanks for this challenge well met!

But this verse wraps around my mind:

I sensed this perdition while out walking,
peered through its brush and pulled myself
back, terrified with the knowledge of something
devoid of Divine and Good.

and I find myself pausing here while I feel a rush, shivering deliciously!
Thank you for taking on my challenge, I much enjoyed...

*yours, eddy styx

Hi Lavender, your use of language in this poem shows how adept you are at writing dark poetry and I am impresssed.
Trees having ossified, with branches stealing dust from the air while their roots delve deeper into a chasm, is magnificent of the relentless descent into darkness.
I enjoyed your poem because it was so different to what you normally write as you are mostly tempered and mellow but here, I see your skills in forceful flow.
And this line: "Wretched vines strangle each other in a struggle for the hard, sallow dirt." is outstanding.
Well done, loved it. Ruby :) xx

you have a newly discovered talent.. you are a natural!

*your, eddy styx personified!

The only thing missing from this cursed wood is eddy's house, described on https://www.mythramuse.com/hellsgatesguardian/ as:

eddy styx lives in an eerie old house where the floors creak, ominously. His hobbies are poetry and the three M's: motorcycles, mayhem, and murder. He lives alone with his Cat, Phineas, a lovely Manx, and several ghosts from his past.

I can see a path into that wood with low-hanging branches and roots threatening to entangle your feet that leads to this house in the heart of the wood.

Just reading the poem sends a chill through me. Perhaps the Girard Avenue ghost visits this blasted wood. Oh, the possibilities! You should explore them!