Gatekeeper of the underworld,
whose body hides under a cloak,
introduce yourself as you get hurled,
Lying in wait for your next victim to croak,
even though it might not be their time,
No mercy for those cast in molten mercury,
souls drenched in primordial slime every being always spoken to accusatorly.

No painkiller can bring relief,
No psychologist expresses belief,
Though it's in the back of my mind,
An enemy stabbing from behind,
No justice for this unfair crime,
No compensation for the time,
Lost to sleepless nights,
Fear of bright lights,
Tears at upsetting sights,
Those feelings of unrest,
I’m not at my best,
Yet being put to the test,
By this invisible threat,
Whose anguish I cannot forget,
With every return, I face regret,
Having me in disbelief,

My name is insidious.
You may not know me well,
but you soon shall.
My dwelling is dark
and has a well.
I live under your sink.
There's just enough moisture
to offer a drink.
And enough food to allow me time to think.
Enough space to set up shop...
to begin to get plump.
Venture out into the night
and well, make your house my home!
Don't think for a moment.
That I know not where you sleep,
or the sill of the window
where your children
lie fast asleep.

Glad for birth write to express views
aware cunning linguists
will apply figurative screws
in an effort at blatant mud slinging ruse
exercised courtesy mail in ballots,
or electorates standing in queues
who the previous Sunday
possibly fervently prayed within pews
a mixture of Republican and Democratic

Poetry helps me to pass the time;
when I get bored, then I churn out rhyme.
I've had some published 'cross the ocean;
those Yanks are suckers for emotion.

I know my verse is gauche and gushing,
enough to burn your cheeks from blushing,
but dirty laundry gets no airing,
and on my page there's seldom swearing.

Poetry is the art of showing
that beauty's all around us growing,
It’s like a river, ever streaming,
flowing deeper than sleeper’s dreaming.

Assaulted by unending stimuli
Compelled into merciless awareness by
a collection of rogue characters
consuming your attention
unforgiving and unaware
completely apathetic to your torment

As horns from the orchestra silence,
And stillness is felt in the air;
The bows of the strings move together,
And play as if God were there.

A lush sound of celli infusing
The theme that the violins play;
While each note that’s played and suspended,
Takes everyone’s breath away.

Then up from the glorious rapture,
With tones that are all heaven sent;
The sound of the english horn rises
And pours out its dark lament.

Many stare and wonder,
Gazing on Spider Webb Hall,
Living true to its name,
From low to top encased in webs,
New and old,
The decaying manor wrapped in stringy white,
Rumors of a monster spider,
And ghostly victims,
No one ventures in, too wary,
And how right they were to be,

Ah, the mighty are falling
Their swords return and lay upon their fragile necks
The grasses cover their crack armours
And their helmets roll and turn over helplessly,
Their rifles kiss the blood of the slain
Before their bullets turn back at them
And carry their souls to the dead land.

Where are your rushing to?
Why are you running faster?
Stop, the sweet blood
Return to your vessel
And flow through your routes
Why have you slain this august year?
For anguish is come upon us.

In love's warm embrace, we find our way,
Through darkest nights and brightest day.
When tears may fall, and hope feels gone,
Love's light within, forever strong.

In your eyes, a world I see,
A place where hearts and dreams run free.
In your smile, the sun does rise,
Chasing away all cloudy skies.

When life's burdens weigh us down,
In your love, a refuge is found.
With each heartbeat, our spirits soar,
Together, we are forevermore.