Gothilibrium, p.1
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       Gothilibrium, p.1

           Daniel Markov
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  By Daniel Markov

  Copyright 2015 Daniel Markov

  Ugly girl

  Beneath the monsters of stone

  Sat a girl of skin and bone

  Heavy rain fell on her

  Her skin began to fester

  She scratched herself until she bled

  For her own body she carried so much hatred

  So many cuts made with broken glass

  So ugly was this walking carcass

  Lonely man

  A lonely man he was

  Always wandering somewhere

  A man who never received love

  A man who never gave love

  His eyes always looked into emptiness

  His lips never moved away from each other

  His ears heard nothing but silence

  His nose inhaled only the corrupted

  The lonely man made a decision

  He had nothing to live for

  As he flew toward his end

  For the first time he truly smiled

  Night of the poets

  It was the night of dreadful clouds

  It was the night of forest’s wicked sounds

  It was the night of revealing the secrets

  It was the night of the poets

  In the house in the woods they gathered

  Sat at the tables and drank wine of the color red

  Everyone sat and speak they did not

  Who dared was cursed to have his tongue rot

  This was the night just for poems

  The night to share all the secrets and problems

  To share the beauty and ugliness of the written word

  To make it possible for everyone to be heard

  And so the poems began to pour

  Of death and tragedy and amour

  Some made them cry and some made them shiver

  It ate their sanity just like alcohol ate their liver

  The night of the poets ended

  To insanity many surrendered

  As they walked across the sea of blood and tears

  They walked out into the age of dark years

  Castle of pleasures in the fog

  The fog was thick as spider’s web

  As one man struggled to find his way out

  He walked through the forest of wicked sounds

  In hopes of coming out alive

  The forest was scary and full of dread

  The kind that shouldn’t belong to this world of men

  Like some twisted mind designed it

  To swallow sanity and spread the insanity

  The man walked and walked

  And he found a way out

  In the clear stood a castle of black

  Surrounded by fog and forest of dread

  The man went in front of the castle

  He stood and admired this monster of nightmares

  And the monsters of stone that towered upon him

  Creatures that came from the twisted minds

  Doors opened and the man shivered

  A beauty came out from the dark castle’s mouth

  Pale as dead with hair made of darkness

  Naked and with eyes that could melt icebergs

  The man froze in place

  What of beauty what of fear

  She whispered with a voice of silk

  And disappeared inside the castle’s mouth

  This voice and beauty this man could not resist

  This mystic beauty of darkness

  And so the man went inside

  Into the monster made of black and dread

  The doors closed with a loud bang

  The lights of the candles danced on the breeze of death

  The man stood inside and with fear and admiration he observed

  The ensemble of beauties that darkness poured out

  Such beauty this man never witnessed

  As they encircled him he shivered

  Their breath warmed his skin

  Their touches boiled his blood

  His clothes was torn away from him

  The beauties dragged him into the room

  On the bed he was thrown and tied

  Where beauties drained him of creator’s fluid

  The man enjoyed like never before

  The pleasure they gave him was of world beyond

  The man enjoyed and enjoyed

  Until he became nothing but skin and bone

  Music in the night

  Through the streets of old

  Echoed the music of the night

  Through the night of cold

  Every time a little after midnight

  No one knew from where this music came

  This breeze of delight to everyone’s ears

  This beauty that set even the hearts of cold aflame

  That made even the monsters of stone to release tears

  The legend said it was the music of a man in love

  For a woman long gone from this world of dread

  The woman with the beauty of a dove

  The woman for whom many fell dead

  The man captured her heart with the beauty of his music

  She danced to its rhythm on the pale moonlight

  To her it seemed like it was created by some magic

  She danced and he played even dead this music of the night

  Sleeping with corpses

  She inhaled the smell of death

  Every day she went to sleep

  The smell that filled her lungs with joy

  And her dreaded soul with pleasure

  She consumed men like a plague

  The ones who fell for her mystic beauty

  For her pale skin and hair of darkness

  They gave their blood and soul

  In her own chambers of pleasures and dread

  She held these men who wanted to use her

  No one knew she had a dark side

  The demon that hid behind the mask of an angel

  She drained them of creator’s fluid and life

  She enjoyed in their moans and screams

  She placed them after death in her secret place

  She slept with corpses of men she used

  Baltimore’s tragedy

  He was a man of written word

  A man of love and mystery

  The one who wrote about a dark bird

  And spent his time at the cemetery

  He wrote about love and grotesque

  He wrote poems and tales

  His work was unique

  The result of his inner battles

  Alcohol was his best friend

  And many bottles he dried

  But alcohol was probably his end

  By which many were horrified

  On that day the world cried

  A great poet they lost

  In Baltimore he died

  Where ravens speak with his ghost

  The traveling poet

  There was once this poet

  Who walked all over the world

  With him was always his trustful bag

  That contained pen and paper

  On that paper he wrote his thoughts

  About love and tragedy and death

  As he walked he shared them with common people

  Who stood in amazement because of the poet’s songs

  Some were twisted and dark

  Others full of love and emotion

  But all pierced the hearts and minds of common men

  And left them in thinking as he vanished into the night

  Murdoch the Mortician

  There was once this man

  Murdoch the Mortician was his name

  A tall and crude man he was

  A man of dread and silence

nbsp; Sorrow constantly followed him

  He held Death by hand as he walked

  In peace only when surrounded by the dead

  Cemetery was his only home

  Many bodies he lay into the Earth’s womb

  People that once had stories to tell

  But after death they were only shells

  Their souls went into a world of better or worse

  Murdoch the Mortician was his name

  The caretaker of the dead

  A weird man of solitude and dread

  The one who danced with Death

  The artist

  He was an artist with bad teeth and a wicked breath

  An artist who desired nothing more but quick death

  His soul carried so much pain and sorrow

  Loneliness devoured him for to women he was a scarecrow

  He wrote poems of love and death

  Many would say they were written by a psychopath

  He drew paintings of macabre and gore

  That came from the visions he wore

  All that sorrow and pain he could not bear

  The love for this world anymore he didn’t share

  It was time to go to a world of better or worse

  It was time into darkness to immerse


  Like garbage he was treated

  Abused and molested and defeated

  Just because he was different

  Just because he was special

  They did not like his appearance

  Day after day they beaten him

  They hated his intellect

  Jealousy consumed their souls

  An outcast he was

  Banished from society of men

  Just like all extraordinary men

  For ordinary men hated those above them

  The Hunter

  Once more into the night

  I bravely walk alone

  Against nocturnal creatures I fight

  While being observed by monsters of stone

  Through narrow streets passes a breeze of dread

  The flickering eyes move in the dark

  Through these streets that count many dead

  Above them stars never spark

  From around the corner I hear a muffled scream

  I run and a wicked thing I see

  Many would think this is just a dream

  Many but not me

  The creature sees me and stands up

  The nocturnal dread from the wicked tales

  I am the only one who can the creature stop

  I who fought with them many battles

  The creature immediately attacks

  Driven by the thirst for my warm blood

  I take out my silver ax

  And kill the creature in the name of God

  The table

  There was once this table

  Full of cuts and burn marks

  Table full of stories of dread

  Covered in dust and wicked blood

  It was the table of a writer

  The one with a twisted mind

  Whose soul never rested

  Tormented with madness it constantly was

  On that table he wrote his stories of madness

  Wicked stories full of torment

  Scary and full of pain

  They even made the table shiver

  The writer lived beside that table

  The writer committed suicide beside that table

  The table soaked in the writer’s blood

  And trapped his soul within forever

  The poet, the pen, and the poison

  It was a dark and scary night

  The kind from which all men ran in fright

  Clouds of dread gathered on the sky

  It was time for this poet to die

  He wrote with his trustful pen

  As he enjoyed the coldness of his den

  About a love he always sought

  She was his only thought

  His last poem he finished

  He didn’t want his life to end in bloodshed

  So he took his trustful poison

  And died in this small prison


  The darkness hid many things

  One of it was a man so grotesque

  That light didn’t even dare to illuminate him

  And it kept him hidden from the eyes of the innocents

  A man full of sins and pains

  The one who lurked on those in the light

  He crept beneath the sleeping city

  And searched for the warm and innocent blood

  Razor wire

  She covered herself in razor wire

  It was time from this life to retire

  Pool of blood began to grow

  This girl lost her tomorrow

  Red rose

  It was white in the beginning

  Innocent and free

  Then the rain began

  And the rose became red

  Snake’s tongue

  He licked her virgin’s blood

  With his forked tongue

  She became his food

  He liked his meat very young

  Sorrows of our fathers

  Look at them my dead friends

  They cry for us now when it’s late

  But when we were alive

  They stomped us because we were different

  Look at them my dead friends

  Soak up the tears that fall on our graves

  For life that we took from ourselves

  Wasn’t truly our life

  Look at them my dead friends

  Remember how they used to command us

  But now they cannot

  And for our deaths they are to be blamed


  From the clouds so wicked and dreary

  It falls upon humanity so weary

  The kisses it gives are full of passion

  Soaking in sky's tears is their addiction

  Many escape from it but a few stay

  Under the water curtain they pray

  For death to be quick and gentle

  And make the soil soft where they will settle


  This life is so unfair

  To live more I do not dare

  Oh demons with wicked breath

  Grant me a pleasant death


  I don't like my cracked skin

  I don't want to belong to this kin

  This wicked race called humanity

  As with each day they slowly drown in insanity

  I don't like my rotten teeth

  And I can feel the rising heat

  Of rage within my mind

  Because of this race so ignorant and blind

  I don't like my greasy hair

  And I don't like the way they stare

  At me with their piercing eyes

  One can only hope this plague eventually dies

  What can I do to escape this life

  Nothing but slash my throat with a knife

  And so from the darkest depths of my tormented soul I roar

  I'm just a human and nothing more

  The suicidal man, the owl, and the wicked thing that runs in the dark

  It was yet another night

  Of full moon and dreadful clouds

  The kind which would make any man run in fright

  Except one man lost in his thoughts

  Through this graveyard he wandered

  Thinking about painless ways to die

  This life he abandoned

  It was darker than the night's sky

  The names on the graves he read

  Of the ones long gone

  He envied them for they were dead

  Now nothing but ash and bone

  From a tree nearby one owl observed this man

  This fool that did nothing but ran

  He was lost in this world and in his mind

And he was obviously blind

  For he could not see the wicked thing

  That made this night even more chilling

  But the creature could see its next meal

  And when the man saw it he could not believe it was real

  He didn't want to die anymore

  He wanted to live and see his family more

  He began to run but the creature was faster

  And the creature met nothing but disaster

  A hunter emerged from darkness

  He faced this creature of pure madness

  And he cut off its head

  This wicked thing was finally dead

  The suicidal man begged for forgiveness

  But the hunter was merciless

  The suicidal man was also wicked

  So the hunter had him punished

  The owl observed everything from the rotten tree

  It was happy this graveyard was finally free

  That the wicked creature was finally gone

  And that its reign of terror was done

  Ravenous sky

  I have seen the dark flock

  Flying over our kingdoms

  Announcing misery and death

  Announcing He is coming

  They flew over our kingdoms

  Their shrieks chilled the bones of the dead

  And they blocked the sun

  And our kingdoms drowned in darkness


  This victory is for you

  For you my sweet Victoria

  For you I shall conquer them all

  For your beauty I will lay waste to all the kingdoms

  So much blood I have spilled for you

  And I will spill more if you desire it my dark queen

  And not will you only drink it

  You will cleanse your body in the fluid of our mortal enemies

  Sea of tears and blood

  I have seen the future

  I have seen the fall of humanity

  I have seen this world burn

  I have seen the death of all life

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