The victors speech fill gaps unsaid and gloats upon the bleak now wed amongst the blades; by river bled I rise up and leave the dead.

The war for self is rarely lost and budgeted in acceptable cost.

If spirit powers down too soft then apathy's the coin not tossed.

The wage is bad; the nights are long to solidify in this peculiar song.

Once more to take the highroad strong? And stand against the rights of wrong?

The field turns to ash and dust in empathic view of my foe's dark l.u.s.t.

Reflection mirrored of nighttime rust that struggles for this world to bust.

Our blackened side fulfilled by hate, to balance out the neutral weight.

Tipping scales for either bait endangers self and mental state.

Mead moon shines with silvery light to witness self's gargantuan fight.

Neuroses troops poised in flight, the battle royale now far from sight.

The winning move deployed in zest is how the wretch can cheat this test, And as karma blows in from the west, I dispatch his form at my behest.

Job mentally done for now, at least I commit to the truth of the unending beast.

The dual of humanities' pie as meat, forever to plague its soulful seat.

CROSS BUT SHAN'T.

by Nathan Rowark The bridge that I should cross but shan't is that of which I could but can't.

Cold metal structures lay to lead but going there will make me bleed.

I sit upon the bank and gaze at the unfolding of the plans she's laid.

Knowing damage yet to come, if I followed her dreams undone.

No longer one that wants to save, I leave her side to watch her cave.

It fills me with the depths of dread to watch unfurl what's in her head.

A beauty that to me resides the hopes of two that well in eyes, Yet effective pull of darkest strife now takes her down as nighttime's wife.

About Nathan Rowark.

Nathan Jonathan David Lee Rowark was born in the pagan county of Hertfordshire, England. Nathan has been writing since he was six years old and he wrote his first novel at the age of twelve when he moved to Ess.e.x.

Nathan currently writes screenplays and splits his time between running his own business and directing short horror movies. At thirty-two years young, Nathan's hopes are to follow his first love, which is poetry.

Nathan is Wiccan, which he feels, along with life experiences, has helped to form ideas for his poetry. His family's surname was originally Warlock and it means, according to Norse sailors, "to bind with words," or "spell singer." Therefore, words are in his blood.

If he were asked to sum up his love of poetry, it would be the way a poet can convey situations, emotions and physical environments with just a few words and is the only medium he has ever found that can have such power. Nathan is an eclectic human being and has discovered that an open mind is the pa.s.sage to the divine.

http://www.inspired-words.co.uk.

SUMMER TWILIGHTS.

by Stephanie Smith.

you remember.

summer twilights hiding under picnic tables and behind backyard sheds.

mingling with vampires in the trees and reading Stephen King by candlelight because the boogeyman is real to a nine year-old.

and the neighbors are not what they seem THE DEATH MAIDEN.

by Stephanie Smith.

the death maiden kisses the moon her hair smells like waste dress tattered and caked with dirt from a grave the delicate bone beneath her skin quivers with each thought of the downfall before sunrise she sang today is beauty with innocent face said life and death sit side by side her dance of existence was cheery and lively but inside I knew she was nervous she gave me flowers that grew along a river bank where it rained all night tears from the moon I think of the burden she'll be carrying very soon CITY OF THE DEAD.

by Stephanie Smith Here in this city of the dead we cast wishes into the suicidal fountain On hot summer days you can smell the flesh from the citizens who stroll down sidewalks of bone In this city there are morgues on every street corner and maggot-filled dreams crawl in the minds of those who live here, calling us to the grave A CHOICE.

by Stephanie Smith The angels came to wash my face And falling: a thousand drops of crimson tears on my sleeve All alone on the mountain, posed at the edge with tattered wings perceiving an empty dream, I was given two choices: to feel again or join the angels who no longer sing in their choirs but ravage the night with b.l.o.o.d.y bird claws I chose the latter.

About Stephanie Smith.

Stephanie Smith is a poet and writer hailing from Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in such publications as Dark Fire Fiction, Eviscerator Heaven, House of Horror, Niteblade, Not One of Us, and Paper Crow.

Stephanie's first chapbook, t.i.tled Dreams of Dali, is available from Flutter Press. http://imajican.livejournal.com.

WHEN GHOST CHILDREN SPEAK.

by Paul Sohar.

The voices of ghost children grow.

like mildew on the tapestry, they wind around the lily pattern floating in the background free.

where the backs of chairs and sofas turn, where only cobwebs stand on guard, that's where they can wiggle up on the backs of adults who park.

their lives in pointed circles around the gray litany of the coffee table till these trickling voices touch their earlobes with the tingling of a fable.

fanned by the naughty unseen children; then the grown-up backs will twitter, speak about the temperature and the snow that's sure to wither next week or sooner when these voices slither back where they came from and where they send all those who listen bang into a maelstrom: say! whispers hone the craft of kissing...

THE ABANDONED FARMHOUSE.

by Paul Sohar The carca.s.s of the old farm house harbors no sounds yet I'm afraid to follow the slender sprite of an early spring breeze as she slips into the vandalized living room and gliding past the dusty bones of old dining chairs she slithers into a water-stained volume of poetry- fluffing up the pages she seeks out some comforting rhymes to rest on until ma.s.saged by the soft iambs she creeps out again into the ghostly late afternoon sun tiptoeing on the skittish leaves of a moribund rhododendron she climbs up on an invisible rope back into the sky and then there's nothing left to show that I was standing here by the broken window and like a peeping tom I watched her wordless tryst with an undead poet in the forgotten old farmhouse trapped in an idle growth of maples.

THE KNOCK.

by Paul Sohar It was quarter past nine when I heard a knock on the front door.

I looked up from my book, but the door looked no different, the off-white semi-gloss paint had started to crack and curl in a malevolent grimace some time before, and now it didn't bother me at all; I knew I could outstare a problem but why waste time on it when I could be reading or falling asleep in the armchair with a floor lamp positioned right next to it. In fact, the door was as still as any of the pictures on the walls, even its grimace seemed to sag and soften as I sat there thinking I could hang the door on the wall as an object of art, after all it had a message, something to say, maybe a lot more than the tulips in the print beside me or the blue hills in the landscape above the fireplace.

About Paul Sohar.

Paul Sohar got to pursue his life-long interest in literature full time when he went on disability from his job in a chemistry lab. The results have slowly showed up in Agni, Bryant Literary Review, Chiron Review, Grain, Hotel Amerika, International Poetry Review, Kenyon Review, Main Street Rag, Rattle, and many others.

Paul has seven books of translations into English from his native Hungarian language, but now a volume of his own poetry t.i.tled Homing Poems is available from Iniquity Press. His latest book is t.i.tled True Tales of a Fict.i.tious Spy, and it is creative nonfiction about the Stalinist gulag in Hungary.

http://www.echapbook.com/poems/sohar.

THE CITY OF THE DEAD.

by Peter Steele.

Your dreams have long since been forgotten.

And your flesh is pallid, dry and rotten.

See how your eyes have fallen out of your head.

Welcome to the city of the dead.

The darkness of night is forever here to stay.

And no matter how hard you try, you'll never get away.

Remove all those thoughts of freedom from your head, Because you are in the city of the dead.

Soon, you'll learn that the dead no longer have a care.

They just mesmerize you with a G.o.dless stare!

The maggots are feeding on the brain inside your head.

Your refuge is now the city of the dead.

It is so hard to accept that you have died.

And you often wonder why the angels lied!

But forget all the deceitful words they said And take your place in the city of the dead.

FULL MOON.

by Peter Steele The moon shone boldly Through the trees, Tantalized by a Midnight breeze.

Through the dark A naked creature prowled.

The night was alive With its primitive howls.

On all fours With animal charm, Through the fields Into the local farm.

To the cattle It gives an evil gloat, And with teeth like daggers Tears out their throat.

The farmer emerged with A loaded shot gun in hand, And scanned with a keen eye His trespa.s.sed land.

A rustle of leaves Up above on the gra.s.sy verge And a human wolf Did stealthily emerge.

With a gasp of shock The farmer raised the gun and aimed.

The field was lit by a flash, And the beast was maimed.

The farmer had taken The strange creature's life, And before his very eyes, It transformed into his wife.

PUPPET MASTER.

by Peter Steele The theatre was engulfed in an icy chill.

The stage lay ahead, cold and still.

The surrounding spotlights were all on, And like stars they brightly shone.

Something quite bizarre caught my sight.

There were ten figures up ahead dressed in white.

Their pupil-less eyes seemed so cold and dead.

And their lips were painted blood red.