poetic-child-of-night

[poetic-child-of-night]

A murder mystery where every character beleives themself responsible for the death and try to cover it up

A veil of dust motes danced in the pale shaft of sunlight that pierced the high, arched windows of the Hemlock Library. The air, usually pregnant with the musky scent of aged paper and forgotten lore, now hung heavy with a different kind of weight, thick enough to steal Harold’s breath. It wasn't the usual hushed silence that normally accompanied the turning of aged pages. This silence was a living thing, pressing down on him with the weight of a thousand untold secrets.

In the heart of the vast room, sprawled amidst the lush chaos of antique bookshelves, lay Mr. Granville, the esteemed head librarian. His once imposing frame now resembled a discarded marionette, his usually crisp white shirt marred by a grotesque bloom of crimson that blossomed across his chest.

Harold's heart, a frantic bird trapped in his ribcage, hammered a chaotic rhythm against his trembling bones. Each solemn tick of the grandfather clock resonated like a death knell in the oppressive silence. A wave of nausea washed over him, a sickening counterpoint to the chilling certainty that bloomed in his gut. A cold sweat prickled on his brow. Had he done this? The memory of his earlier confrontation with Mr. Granville – his voice rising in frustration, fueled by a potent combination of anger and cheap sherry, over a missing first edition – played on an endless loop in his mind. It was his fault. completely and utterly his. a harsh discord against the backdrop of this grim tableau.

A strangled sob shattered the oppressive silence of harold’s thoughts, as jarring as a gunshot in a cathedral. Miss Penelope Featherstone, the mousy cataloguer, huddled in a corner, her tear-streaked face a mask of abject terror. Her eyes, red-rimmed and overflowing, darted between Mr. Granville's lifeless form and a porcelain vase clutched tightly to her chest. A delicate spiderweb of cracks marred its once pristine surface.

“Oh dear, oh dear," she whimpered, her voice barely a whisper that seemed to echo in the vast chamber. "It was an accident, it was dark, I swear! I didn't mean to…",

Her voice trailed off, lost in a choked gasp that spoke volumes of the horror that had unfolded. Across the room, perched precariously on a ladder amidst a sea of ancient tomes, stood Professor Finch. His spectacles, askew on his nose, offered a distorted view of the scene below. He clutched a leather-bound grimoire to his chest, his face a canvas of bloodless terror.

"I… I overheard your argument, Mr. Pinkerton," he stammered, his finger raised against harold but his face glued to ground, his voice a mere tremor that reverberated through the silence. "I thought… I thought dropping this on your head would silence you and might stop the commotion…but he pushed you..”

The scene was ludicrous, a tragicomedy played out in the grand theater of the Hemlock Library. A petty argument that escalated with the fumbling grace of a drunken walrus, a vase attacked in dark, a book mis-aimed . And yet, here they were, three unlikely conspirators, bound together by a shared, horrifying secret

Suddenly, the library door creaked open, a shaft of golden light slicing through the gloom. In walked Mrs. Higgins, the formidable cleaning lady. Her gaze, sharp as a hawk's, swept over the tableau. Her lips pursed into a disapproving line that could curdle milk. "Goodness gracious," she tut-tutted, her voice laced with a knowingness that sent shivers down Harold's spine. "Looks like someone spilled something red on Mr. Granville. And what's Miss Featherstone doing with a broken vase? Clumsy, aren't we?"

Her words hung heavy in the air, a silent accusation. Then, Mrs. Higgins shuffled closer, leaning in conspiratorially. Her voice, a low rasp, sent a cold sweat prickling across Harold's skin. "Don't you worry, dears," she rasped. "I won't say a word. After all, we all have something to hide, don't we?"

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[poetic-child-of-night]

A sonnet for your favpurite charcter frm movies

crimson leaves fall on Welton's hallowed ground,

where whispers echo paint a life unbound.

no joyous laughter pierces through the air

a bright flame, extinguished, cold, and bare.

he dared to dream, to seize the fleeting day.

“i was good, really good” his voice would say.

Oh! fragile bloom in shadows, forced to fight,

he found his light, then faded in the night

The stage he graced stands empty, left behind,

a shadowed echo, but the words remain.

his spirit whispers, urging us to find,

our own light, unshackled, breaking free from pain.

though the boys mourns, his legacy takes flight,

neil, flickering flame that burns eternally bright

#dead poets society #todd anderson #welton #john keating #robin william #neil perry #dps boys #poetries #poetblr #nocturne writes sometimes #dark academia #dark academia literature #dark romanticism #love poems #oc poem #oc poetry #dark acadamia aesthetic #inkspill.queued

[poetic-child-of-night]

A poem abt yourself in which nothing is true

they whisper of a scandal, a fall from grace,

neither a royalty nor a peasant, oh dear, just existing without a face.

they whisper tales of a drifter, oh horror, a ghost in the night,

with a voice like a crow and a heart full of blight.

they whisper tales of emerald eyes, oh beauty, a mane of raven hair,

weathered soul that croons and sighs, a heart that can't repair.

they whispers of heartbreak, oh hopeless, no burdens I hold,

just stories embroidered with laughter and gold

the phantom they've crafted, is creature of sin

a figment, a whisper, where truth can't begin

#oc poem #spilled poem #nocturne writes sometimes #dead poets society #dark academia #dark romanticism #oc poetry #spilled ink

[poetic-child-of-night]

Papa,

I never had a cognition of such before but today when i looked in the mirror i felt as if i was seeking something. maybe something profound i can write about, maybe something pretentious i can brag about, maybe i was looking for my own faults or maybe i was looking at a bleak 20 year old chap looking for meaning from nothing.

Amidst all these maybes i saw a reflection not entirely my own. It met my gaze with kinder eyes steeped in wisdom. It was a warm soul yet a cold exterior, a bold authoritarian with tenderness of a nurturing forest - a paradox, one might say.

It was reflection of days yet to come and yet of days that have gone by, much like the timeless rhythms of the river. Inside the mirror stood a man - blurry to my vision yet unmistakably clear to my heart. It embraced my blue with his somber simple arms. A perpetual radiant smile evermore brushed around as if his face were a canvas upon which the bold strokes of vibrant colors danced, like a meadow painted with the hues of lotus.

The man in the mirror bathed with the grace of moonlight, glowing even in the darkest hours. Someone with Shiva’s unwavering resolve interwoven with Vishnu’s playful innocence in his soul.

I looked at the man, we were moulded of the same mud and blood. I looked at the man long enough till tears swelled up. I beheld you, dear Father, with an intensity that brought tears to my eyes, tears of reverence, much like the sacred rain of Indra. I beheld the man who bore the weight of responsibilities and, in the same breath, offered solutions with unwavering resolve,

And yet, despite being etched from the same fabric, I knew our threads would forever weave tapestries distinct. Our tapestries, though similar in hue, would hold unique patterns, intricate designs born from the tapestry of experiences we called life. I may never fully grasp the tapestry you have woven, the struggles you have faced, the joys you have savored.

Our thoughts, though born from the same wellspring, might never converge, mirroring the paths we walk, ever diverging even as they run parallel.

But Father, know this, even if I cannot walk in your shoes, I see the footprints you have left behind

I looked at you just like you did for your father before. I looked at you just like you did for your father before.

#nocturne writes sometimes #for letters that are left on desk #dark academia #dead poets society #dark academia literature #dark romanticism #saltburn #grunge #typography #inside bo burnham #bo burnham #dad #father’s son

[poetic-child-of-night]

In shadows deep, where silence reigns,

a soul, unseen, unmoored, remains.

wisp of self, once bold and bright,

now prepares for eternal night.

away from oblivion’s grasp,

unknown of lover’s touch,

it steals fragments of existence, such.

like whispered secrets in the breeze,

lost echoes of forgotten pleas.

through veils of mist and memories,

it wander on in ghostly ease.

each step a brushstroke, pale and thin,

upon the canvas of what has been.

no mourners gather, no bells chime,

no alter is prepared , no soil turned over,

into the void, it slowly fade,

dance of nothingness, duly paid.

the stars sang, a requiem sublime

as it embraced the endless rhyme

of fading notes, a haunting song,

into abyss does now it belong.

tapestry of dreams and fears,

dissolves with every passing year.

in twilight's arms, it may rest,

Oh! my fading ember,

was it really a last request?

-nocturne

#nocturne writes sometimes #for someone who is reading too much of dante #dark academia #dead poets society #dark academia literature #dark romanticism #unreal unearth #spilled words #spilled thoughts #spilled ink

[poetic-child-of-night]

[poetic-child-of-night]

oh, silence , my love, how I long for your embrace,

to bask in the stillness of your loving grace,

yet you stay away, hesitant to come near,

as my thoughts rage like a storm that's all too clear.

my mind is a battlefield, a raging fire,

with thoughts that burn with an insatiable desire,

they drown out the whispers of your gentle voice,

and leave me longing for your soothing poise.

you are the butterfly that flits just out of reach,

the elusive songbird that I cannot beseech,

for my thoughts are too loud, a chaotic din,

and they drown out the calm that you bring within.

oh, how I wish that I could quiet my mind,

to leave the chaos and the mayhem behind,

so that I may bask in the stillness of your light,

and find the peace that I seek in the midst of the night.

my love, please don't shy away,

my love , please provide your aid

- nocturne

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[poetic-child-of-night]

You felt like home

In the desolate corridors of solitude, I find myself yearning for the embrace of home. It is a longing that permeates every fiber of my being, an ache that reverberates through the caverns of my soul. For home, I have discovered, is not a place, but a person—a singular soul who embodies the essence of sanctuary.

But now, in the absence of that cherished connection, I am left adrift, yearning for the warmth of their touch and the gentle melody of their laughter. The vast expanse of solitude engulfs me, its icy tendrils tugging at my heartstrings, whispering reminders of what I have lost.

Each passing day seems to carve deeper grooves of homesickness within me. The familiar routines, once shared, now echo in the hollow chambers of my memory. The quiet moments we cherished, the shared dreams we nurtured—they linger like fading embers, casting a soft glow amidst the shadows of my longing.

In the solitary hours, I seek solace in the fragments of our shared experiences—the whispered conversations, the shared meals, the tender embraces. They serve as fragile lifelines, tethering me to a sense of belonging that now feels distant, yet remains etched within the core of my being.

Oh, how I yearn to return to that sacred space of shared dreams, where the symphony of our intertwined souls resonated with perfect harmony. The world, once vibrant and alive, now appears muted and incomplete without the presence of that one person who embodied the very essence of home.

nocturne

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[poetic-child-of-night]

In the glistening reflection, silver and bright, A figure emerges, captivating my sight. Illuminating the world, she seems to glow, Pale and pretty, with a celestial show.

Her radiance holds me in a trance, As I gaze at her in a poetic dance. Captivated by her allure and grace, I'm bewitched by her enchanting face.

I praise her beauty in whispered words, As she casts her glow on the lonely herds Of clouds that drift across the night sky, While I stand below, in wonder, oh so high.

But with each passing moment, my heart aches, For I fear the dawn that the morning makes. I long to keep her by my side, so near, But the sun will rise, and she'll disappear.

In the fading moonlight, I feel a pang of sorrow, For she is my muse, my love, my tomorrow. But as the night wanes and the day draws nigh, I'm left with longing, and a bittersweet goodbye.

As the first light of dawn starts to break, I know my time with her was but a brief take. In the end, I'm left with memories and breath, Yearning for her in life, and even in death.

-nocturne

taglist : @shyampyari​  @a-really-hot-caterpillar  @navaratna @bluebed @justpoetrythings @emikadreams  @ma-douce-souffrance   @chaanv @kabhi-kabhi @bookish-alone    @swiggy @is-this-a-fish-market @flageblcili @arziyaaan @ujwalll ​ @miraclebluebird ​ @chrisevanstrash ​ @goodslim960-blog  @dukhi--aatma  @anatomicalheartbreakemoji @anatomicalheartbreakemoji

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[poetic-child-of-night]

my wife is not well,

But I still take her out

On our midnight pilgrimages

Even with her stiff slouch.

The moon is plump tonight,

As I take her to our favourite field

We look up at the moon so high

And so very, very bright.

We begin to dance with delight,

Though she is too weak to sway,

Her hand upon my hand is oh

so very tight.

I gaze into her pale eyes,

And then I close her mouth, see

So that I may kiss her cold lips

And I place my hands upon her thighs.

Though there is more dancing I crave,

I realise that it is late, so I place one more

Kiss upon her lips before taking

her back to her grave.

- nocturne

Taglist : @a-really-hot-caterpillar   @nocgf  @navaratna @bluebeadss @just-existin-and-vibin @emikadreams @ma-douce-souffrance   @motherofgodz @chaandni-raat @nokhushionlygam @bookish-alone   @swiggy @is-this-a-fish-market @arziyaaan @ujwalll   @paav-chai ​ @miraclebluebird ​ @chrisevanstrash ​ @goodslim960-blog  @dukhi--aatma @blehmehsmhbruh69

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[poetic-child-of-night]

Tired, I lie tired

The anxious soul of mine

Looks around for hope

End up losing what I owned

and cherished

Weary, bored of being tired

Drained eyes of mine

seek for reasons

end up getting miseries enveloped

in lustrous cloak

Drowsy, I feel worn-out

I fall in the river of solace

To find myself

Ended up finding the error in

contrast of the sky

Sleepy, I lend my ear

Voices inside that echoed

Now rests silenced

As I express my gratitude

to the life to let me be

Shattered, The pieces fall

Holding all broken parts in my hands

And pin of false expectation

I attach everything at right strand

Never realizing pins do hurt

Exhausted, my thoughts hurt

My mind is bewildered

The lullaby from behind taught

Life is nothing but happy lies

Holding hands with failed hopes

- nocturne 

Taglist : @a-really-hot-caterpillar  @nocgf @navaratna @bluebeadss @just-existin-and-vibin @emikadreams @hailraykin @ma-douce-souffrance  @sleptwrongmf​ @chaand-sithaare @nokhushionlygam @bookish-alone  @cantatagflat @swiggy @is-this-a-fish-market @arziyaaan @starboybf  @paav-chai​ @miraclebluebird​ @chrisevanstrash​ @goodslim 

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[poetic-child-of-night]

The poet talks about love

ecstasy and joy of being known and still yearned

the thrill of giving yourself wholly

finding the other side to the void

who’s presence makes things alright

But do poets talk about

hurt and misery of loving someone fully

pain in the breaking of one's heart and theirs

when love chooses the wrong time to surface

and what felt right was in fact wrong

And yet no poet speaks

Of aching hearts that replaces the once filled

Of bitterness and emptiness that follows

When your heart desires for another

Yet can never be satisfied in them

I am no poet, yet I speak of love

The highs, the lows. Joy and sorrow

Memories filled with laughter

Long cold nights so achingly alone.

And I inquire

Is it better to have loved and lost 

Than never to have loved at all?

- nocturne

Taglist : @svapnakalpa-mareechi @ghostofwillow @a-really-hot-caterpillar @silver-de-vonne @gopikanyari @navaratna @bluebeadss @just-existin-and-vibin @emikadreams @hailraykin @ma-douce-souffrance @ramenwithmayoisgood @chaand-sithaare @nokhushionlygam @bookish-alone @chrisevanstrash @likeshareandsubscribe @ajab-si-gf

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[poetic-child-of-night]

Hold me tight and don’t let go

Pour me one last cup of tea

and stay with me in

the dying candlelight.

Your time has come

yet here I stay.

Wrap me in your endless warmth

and shut my eyes to the eternal night.

May I offer you a final kiss?

One last blanket for the road?

Return to me please,

and tell me of your epic journey.

You’ve left the door open,

yet your shadow still lingers.

May I follow you out into that desolate path

where even moonlight hardly dares to idle?

The candle falters and my vision slips,

yet I seem to see you out there

just a wisp.

Let me hold you, one more time,

and maybe then, I’ll say goodbye.

Let me love you, one more time,

and if you wish, I'll say goodbye

- nocturne

Taglist: @hungerbf @bazizinga @ajab-si-gf @ma-douce-souffrance @a-really-hot-caterpillar @navaratna @gopikanyari @hailraykin @bluebeadss @chaand-sithaare @emikadreams @chrisevanstrash @just-existin-and-vibin @clandestinial @svapnakalpa-mareechi @silver-de-vonne

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[poetic-child-of-night]

A wave of sight amidst the sea of eyes Came crashing down with maddening desire The lover and the message which he bore, And flushed him into the eternal night.

Refusing fate, he swam towards the shore, An arrow never flown before, While gasping, choking on his fear of death Beneath deceitful waves and crushing roars

And all through hell, did grace above his head The message meant for her, whose eyes were wet, For they could drown his flesh but not his soul, Whose love shall rage until the world’s last breath.

Yet, whether he survived, still he would go And seal away the message for his own.

-nocturne 

taglist :  @navaratna @bookish-alone @ma-douce-souffrance @just-existin-and-vibin @chaand-sithaare @bluebeadss @pewpewgunemoji @ddaen @svapnakalpa-mareechi @darji-jaldi @chrisevanstrash @emikadreams @a-really-hot-caterpillar @aasthuu​ @clandestinial​

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#nocturne writes sometimes #for someone who writes their letters #oc poem #OC Poetry #dead poets society #poetblr #dark academia #dark academia literature #dark romanticism

[poetic-child-of-night]

Fluid is the time Summer days and nights Passing me by like seconds— Paving the way for the dead of Winter,

But, under the chill of November winds, A maiden appeared Dawning the same name as her temperament surrounding me in a similar, comforting, warmth.

Though unfortunately— Just like her namesake, my time with her passed me by, And in the blink of an eye she was gone.

So, did i lose the tranquility of time she weaved? month came and went, absence is all that's left—

-nocturne

taglist: @navaratna @bookish-alone @ma-douce-souffrance @just-existin-and-vibin @chaand-sithaare @bluebeadss @not-ophended-anymore @pewpewgunemoji @ddaen @svapnakalpa-mareechi @darji-jaldi​ @chrisevanstrash​

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[poetic-child-of-night]

A daisy with a subtle scent lies, describes its beauty, it's tranquility

to the noisy bee with a piercing needle, afraid, nervous of the gigantic monster who crawls, who clasps the faulty green smell, rests, reclines

in the wilderness, in the bad land with the noxious weeds, conceives, perceives its nature, its essence to the lifeless existence deceased death

armed infant and the dark sunlight for a little spot a spot to hypnotize the travellers of the dawn till dusk a spot to amplify its fragrance

blowing in the wind a spot of being one with the one above all a spot of no judgement of the timid bold existence lurking in the grass within, a daisy with a subtle scent lies to the serene chaos of the life

-nocturne

#nocturne writes sometimes #for someone who was my serene chaos #oc poem #poetry #my poems #love poems #original poem #poetries #spilled ink #spilled prose #spilled words #inkspill.queued

[poetic-child-of-night]

    i didn’t fall in love with you     until your skin was already grey and i    had to tell you what the weather was like    since you couldn’t leave your bed.

   i didn’t mind long nights in the hospital    because making you laugh brought a warmth    to my cheeks that burnt hotter than a    forest fire, you never laughed at me for blushing

   i snuck you in alcohol and forbidden foods    and pushed you around in that rusted wheel chair,    and all the nurses looked at us with    miserable eyes that said more than the doctors    would ever tell me.

   naively i thought it was good news    when you said they were sending you home; but    when i saw you strewn across your wine red sheets    my heart was heavy with foreboding, and    neither one of us said anything while i    slid an iv into your paper-skin hand, so    i never asked if you were okay.

   we kissed and i didn’t comment    on your snowflake lips or the fact that    your hands shook like earth quakes when    they grazed my thigh and i held you tightly    like if i could keep all your pieces together    you’d never break apart,    but the world is never that easy.

   for forty-seven days we laughed    and cried, and kissed, and fought    in that bed;    your mom knew but she still let me stay the night.    i heard her weeping through the walls,    i never knew she was counting down the minutes    that we still had together.

   after forty-seven mornings of you    kissing me awake i was confused by    the feeling of sunlight on my lips and    i will never forget the way it cast    shadows across your sullen face.    they say the heart knows before the brain does;    it must be true because i felt the avalanche in my chest    and i don’t know if i’ll ever stop crying because    your mouth was pursed as if    you had tried to say goodbye but    God was dead set on fucking us over,    one last time

-nocturne

#nocturne writes sometimes #for someone who have faced the loss #oc poem #OC Poetry #poetblr #spilled words #poetry #spilled ink