Welcome to the Atrocissimus

I've said previously I'm not a poet, and I don't write much poetry at all. The only poems I have posted here are dark ones about death and the bubonic plague, which is consistent with my overall writing. However, occasionally something will reach my otherwise morbid mind and allow in a bright ray of sunshine, so now I present you with a true rarity: a poem about late winter bird song. Enjoy! The Birds Know Something We Do Not   The birds know something we do not, With their winter-wreathed sung symphony. The birds know something we forgot: Winter’s aged now to its morbid maturity.   Though frosty still the morns may be, The birds sing as like a spring day bright, Weaving songs of warm weather harmony, Though frigid still will be the night.   From where this wisdom comes I do not know, Yet heartened by their songs my spirits are. Their spring songs say even in a driving snow: “Winter’s warming death be not now afar.” 

"And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love; but the greatest of these is love (1 Corinthians 13:13)." Love truly is deathless. Love is the most potent force in the universe, one that transcends time and distance and, yes, even death. It has moved mountains and carved out nations, it has motivated and demonstrated. It has been a great, raging firestorm and it has also been a lone candle flickering in the uttermost dark. It has always been and it always will be. But what does love have to do with a plane of existence as dark and foul as the Atrocissimus? Quite a lot, actually.  There can be no horror without love because these two things are diametrically opposed. Horror is based upon torture, torment, killing, it is predicated on all nature of evil, depraved things. None of these things would be horrifying, though, if there weren't someone whose love of another was being challenged, and it is love that will allow a person to sacrifice themselves for the good of the

I've said before that I'm no poet, but lately, I've been attracted to the idea of writing sonnets about dark subjects, like death, madness, and the Black Death. Because...well, why not? Poems about love are so cliche, don't you think? So I now present you with a somewhat less than originally titled poem about the arrival of the Plague to Europe and the horror of dying all alone... Death Sonnet One When merchants came to harbor on this day, You never knew you quickly would meet Death, You didn’t know you swiftly would drift away, And, gagging, choke a bloody last pained breath,   For below in the belly of the boat, The famished Black Death arrived to break fast, It escaped to stalk, killing all it smote,   You, alone, in your city living to the last,   In dying pain and torment in your bed, You, coughing blood, with unheard groans of pain, Lay praying for the final cold touch, said: “Let torture end and anguish stop its gain,   Let mercy be swift, blessing me once more,

They laugh at you.  The elites of the world hold themselves to very different standards, different rules, different expectations. They make those rules and, shockingly, always seem to craft them so they enrich themselves from the rules, and in so doing, steal even more of what is yours. Your money, your time, your freedom.  They'll tell you they care, tell you everything they do is motivated by nothing but a sincere desire to serve and improve the lives of the many -- and they lie every time. They lie looking right into your eyes and never once flinch they've become so good at it. They don't care about you any more than they do an insect they might smash without another thought. They hold you in the uttermost contempt as they steal from you and laugh. They laugh at your suffering, your poverty of choices, your powerlessness. They laugh that they provide everything you need and can restrict those needs on a whim. They laugh because they have you in the palm of their hands an