"Verse Unveiled in Shadows"

Genuine poetry, an eerie specter's tale,

Within a grim ancestral dwelling's core,

Where obsidian mold meanders,

Like dendritic trails in singular recollection.

Nails driven through the fragile partitions,

Emerging like fangs of youthful nightmares, as Trauma

Clings to fractured windowpanes, its constant companion.

My progenitors once inhabited this dwelling,

In days of yore, when arachnids wove

Their silken snares around my sister's cradle,

And the aged furnace bellowed with the resonance

Of malevolent mirth, lurking just below the ominous skeletal steps.

Authentic poetry, a diabolic enthrallment,

Hands oscillating frenziedly,

Inscribing incantations to quell the madness

Of frigid nights, while the flame flutters before

A spectral, toothless countenance in the looking glass.

The poet, well-acquainted with this fiend,

A phantom residing within the oral chamber,

Unleashing convoluted forms

Upon the vacant parchment, drenched in inky sanguine,

And contorted entities from the closet.

Days of traversing trains and friendships

That dissolved without the farewell's embrace.

We recognize these realms,

These burial grounds, akin to the codes

Of a slasher's chronicle, yet do we comprehend

The guidelines of a solitary bard's quest

To be heard amid the piercing cries?

Poetry embodies a never-ending horror narrative,

Devoid of resolution,

For within the realm of light and existence, lies suffering,

And in the realm of the eternal rest, the raven's beak

Taps upon the empty coffin, announcing

Your long-awaited publication.