Villanelle
When Horror Came to Speak
He came with tales like coiling smoke,With fingers long as funeral notes.His eyes, two bottomless pits of dread,Where lost men fall and never tread.He sat by me — not near, but in,The horror of him not on his skin —But in his breath, in every sound,That reached my soul and spun it 'round.He whispered once, he whispered twice,Each word a wound, each tone like ice.He told of screams that no one hears,Of children born to silent fears.Of mirrors cracked not by the hand,But by the soul that could not standIts own reflection through the years —He showed me death, and called it peers.But I, a writer bold and bare,Have seen the ghosts that men can't bear.My pen is not a sword or wand —It is a mirror, cold and fond.It does not lie, it does not break,Though trembles in the quake of ache.I did not flinch; I did not kneel.I drank the dark and made it feel.For I have watched as others fell —Not into graves, but deeper hells:The hells of guilt, regret, and pride,Where laughter runs away to hide.I’ve seen men paint their love with lies,And call their truths a grand disguise.They bow to flesh, and mock the soul —And call the broken-hearted whole.The horror-man, he laughed at me,A hiss that echoed endlessly."You do not fear me — you are cursed,To see me clear, and feel me first.The ones who scream are not the doomed —It’s those who hear but still resumeTheir daily play of light and sin,That bear the rot that lies within.”Oh yes, I heard him. Loud and deep.He crawled inside the halls of sleep.But he found there a place too bright —My dreams are drawn in sacred light.For though I walk with death and pain,I do not dance within the chain.I see — I write — I bleed — I feel.But I do not pretend what’s real.He told me how the hearers change,How horror makes their logic strange.They build their houses out of dread,They wash with guilt, they dream of red.They stop to speak, to think, to try —And slowly let their moments die.Fear, he said, is not to scream.It is the theft of hope and dream.He told me of a girl who sleptWith every sorrow that she kept.Who looked into a cracked old glassAnd prayed her childhood wouldn’t pass.He told me of a mother tornBetween the man she loved and scorned.He told me of a priest who criedAt every “Amen” he denied.He gave me hell in every tale —And yet I stood, both firm and pale.He asked, “What makes you stand so still,While others break and flee my will?”I said, “You feed on minds unlit,On souls that hide, on hearts that quit.But I am not the one you seek —My strength was forged when I was weak.”He recoiled not in hate — but awe.As if a thing he couldn’t draw.I saw in him not hate, but need —To be believed, to be decreed.For horror has its own desire —To show the soul its secret fire.But I, the writer, did not burn —I wrote instead, and let it turn.And then he vanished like a sigh,Not with a bang, but soft goodbye.No claps of thunder marked the end,No screaming wind, no broken bend.But in my heart, he left a song —Of those who hear and yet stay strong.He cursed me once, then blessed me thrice —For hearing him — and not think twice.Let me speak now, to you, the Hearer:Do not think fear is just a face,It has a home in every place.In laughter, in a lover’s kiss,In every sacred thing you miss.It walks with you, it speaks in doubt,It lights your dreams and snuffs them out.But still — you choose what you obey,And what you write at end of day.I chose the ink, not blade or bell.I chose to know and not to dwell.To gather horror in my hand,And make it part of where I stand.For men are weak, and men are brave —And both are buried in one grave.It matters not if you are scared —But if you write while you are bared.And now, some truths for you to keep:The beauty man forgets in hasteIs always etched in what he faced.The faith he trades for fleeting gainReturns in dreams, with ghostly pain.The lies he tells to feel aliveBecome the tombs where truths don’t thrive.The love he gives, then takes away,Still waits for him — on judgment day.I have no fear of ghost or ghoul.I fear the heart that plays the fool.The man who loves and yet betrays.The child who learns the crooked ways.The preacher who forgets to pray.The artist who won’t walk the gray.The friend who speaks with hollow breath.The soul who’s lost the fear of death.He came again last night in dream,No longer dark, but silver gleam.He sat, not as a beast or bane,But like a storm that knows the rain.And I — I asked him, soft and clear,“What is it that you want from hearers?”He said, “Just this — to be believed.To show the wounds that man’s conceived.Not every ghost is dead and gone.Some live in flesh, in dusk and dawn.And if your pen can mark them true,Then horror’s task is done through you.”And so I write — with fire, not fright.To speak the dark and birth the light.I walk with horror not in chain,But as a shadow to explain.For every man must one day choose —To dance with death, or death refuse.And when the tale is writ and done,I’ll stand — the hearer who did not run.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Poets
The Whispering Trees
Long ago, nestled between the jagged mountains of a forgotten land, there lay a small village called Kharwand. The people of Kharwand were simple folk—farmers, shepherds, and weavers—who lived quiet lives, untouched by the chaos of the outside world. But beyond their fields and homes stood a forest they never dared enter: the Whispering Trees.
By Amjad Khanabout a year ago in Poets
