POETRY BY CHRISTOPHER HIVNER

Christopher Hivner writes from a small town in Pennsylvania surrounded by books (a little bit of everything) and the echoes of music (mostly hard rock/heavy metal and blues). His book of horror/dark fantasy poems, Dark Oceans of Divinity, is available from Cyberwit.net.

Facebook: Christopher Hivner - Author, Twitter: @Your_screams

STARLESS

I never saw the sky
so black
as that night.
The stars disappeared
behind a velvet curtain
of darkness
that bled like oil,
a sludge so foul
my skin grew heavy
with the weight
pressing down
from above.

They came in ships,
sleek like 50s movie rockets,
shining with white lights
that split the sky open
spilling their soldiers
onto the ground,
heavily armored creatures
scurrying over the earth
like slick black beetles.

We never had a chance
on that starless night.
The visitors used the void
to strike
before we could
defend ourselves
and now we run,
fighting with handguns and rifles
against weapons
we thought were science fiction.
The ships have gone,
hiding in the emptiness
while we despair
from our pits and caves,
begging for light
to return.

MISFIRE

Cupid’s arrow
pierced my heart,
and I cried out,
but an answer
did not come
from the girl of my dreams.
I fell into the arms
of a transitional being,
half in my world,
half in her own.
As she stroked my cheek,
I felt myself
leak into her plane
and my body disintegrated
into singularities of light,
my bright white
mixing with her bluish presence.
Relaxed and bemused,
I had accepted
my new reality
when an angry Cupid yanked
the arrow out of my chest.
My light rushed back
to my world
and coalesced again
into human form,
albeit not without penalties.
My eyes were
ovals of white light,
my midsection glowed
like a firefly.
From the other realm,
I felt the being
shriek in despair,
and I answered
with a howl
while Cupid
restrung his bow.

THE FOREST OF NOTHING

Freshly dug graves
wait in the forest
to be filled,
the stench of
broken worms
and copper
hangs in the air
clinging to droplets
of mist,
a dance in the ether
to call
the dead home.
A murder of crows
communes in the branches
overhanging the graves,
cawing to one another
a rattling song
of welcome
for the new corpses.
When the procession arrives
with the bodies,
all is quiet
save the spades
filling in dirt.
The crows
are respectful,
the waning daylight
recedes in mourning,
and when the job
is finished
the diggers
lead the townspeople
out of the
forest of nothing.
The trees
close ranks
to protect
the new arrivals,
the crows sleep,
the darkness grins.