nocturnal humor makes its place
within a mansion moribund
we don't approve its impish facebut quail, but blanch, for being stunned
which room encapsulates the wax
museums where shape our urges shunnedthe marionettes in stilted acts
carve figures out of yielding stuff
sweet wanton visions of what lacksthe visitors they cry, enough!
in hallways angled to reflect
odd myriad images made to blufffor if the eye did close inspect
it scarce could catch the clever cheat
must turn them inside out, dissectthe bits within the dummies' meat
we'll find our mirrored selves a trace
of candled sundries turned effete
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Poems for Morbid Children
PoetryThis is a collection of some of my more curious and macabre poems. Many of my poems play with words, the sounds and shapes of them. However, I often attempt to delineate emotion and sensation I cannot otherwise word, or I take inspiration from legen...