“Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death”  – To a Nightingale by John Keats


Come Darkling,

come out of the shadows.

Don’t run.

Don’t hide.

I mean you no harm…


my gloved hands are open to you.


Come Darkling,

come and sing.

The children of the twilight grow restless and music soothes them

a chord

a note

hanging in the air like oil on water,

while the earth slowly slides into night,

and the those drifting in between seek solace in the whispered hymns.

Sing Darkling,

sing with me,

our voices braiding together

like blooming wisteria

fragrant and hanging heavily.

Wake this city of tears as it lies uneasily on the bones of the world,

and raise our glasses to it,

filled with deepest red.

No thin and cheap wine this,

no banal cup of blood so highly esteemed in penny dreadful novels,

but the choicest marrow smoked and spiced and crumbling rich

giving up its scent and its secrets to you

for you…


Raise your chin Darkling,

my darkling,

my love,

and let me wipe the slick of souls

as it drips down,

and touch it,

just once

to my lips.

This sweet and crooning poison,

this heady brew,

distilled in heaven and desired in hell,

let its sting linger in the corners of my mouth.

Come and sing

we shall wake the calm dead and stir the shades

raising them from complaint slumber

to once again conquer the night,

to rule with iron and bone and whispered conjurations of power,

to stop times fade and whiten the standing stones,

to bring the worn words into focus.

Scraping the moss and letting the magic run clean…

The dead shall not merely rise,

they shall erupt,

and in that moment

my Darkling

my love

we shall fly into that maelstrom and ride their spectral winds,

the reins catching in my gloved and waiting



and we shall batten down those who stifled the seekers and the dreamers of night

who forced them into braced vaults welded of brass and disbelief and fear.

The one key clenched in those thin and merciless hands

until in sorrow

even the silver faded into despairing grey.

Come Darkling,

come with me,

my dark and deepest love,

and let us take our birthright back.







About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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4 Responses to Darkling

  1. hemmiemartin says:

    This is so moving; you have an amazing way with words and the nuance of emotions.

  2. This is powerful and raw and profoundly unsettling.

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