((I used an abc, cba rhyme pattern with this))
The wind that howls past the door,
brings more than cold with it.
Shadows lurk beneath the icy gust.
Death despair, stirring up the dust,
relentless, driven, he shall not quit,
hunting me until above all I soar.
I run and run, feet hitting ground violently,
the trees flashing before my eyes.
death follows, and the hunt is on!
Through the branches, to the dawn,
the hunter deaf to his preys cries,
darkness engulfs me, and I die silently.
Welcome to my dark little corner of the net...
2 comments:
Is there really any hard and fast demarcation, any perennial divide that allows one to separate gothic from other poetry?
Not really, no. Gothic poetry just has a much darker voice to it.
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