Written by Silver


“She sits as candle flickers to and fro.”
Image Courtesy of pincurlmag.com

Blissful liquor fills child of woe.
Drenched in moonlight by window’s sill,
she sits as candle flickers to and fro.

Wispy breeze chills the room.
Goosebumps rise from pasty skin;
she’s not surprised when shivers bloom.

Warm presence draws near,
touches with cold hands.
Affectionate memory shimmers,
draws forth painful tears.

Soothing voice echoes in mind.
Dancing with fondness,
erupting in glee.
No longer confined,
completely free.

Tender care needs no words.
Arms outstretched, she feels so close.
But the pull of life is much preferred.

He kisses her forehead,
breathes heat into her lungs.
And silken hands lift her to bed,
her travel to death not quite here yet.

Spirit was written on behalf of Silver’s struggle with two recent losses in her close-knit family. The process of bereavement is personal to each individual, with each death taking months or years to accept. If you wish to see more of her poetry, be sure to check out Fudge and The Recurring Nightmare

Where Angels Fear to Tread

Written by Lilith

One of the six, Michael's wrath is feared by all...

One of the six, Michael’s wrath is feared by all…

Michael’s shadow fell over the land, his outstretched wings blocking the light over acres of blood-soaked soil as he reached out to the souls beneath him and collected them into his wake. There had been a great battle today; some bastard king or other was warring against his younger brother in the east and the conflicts were spreading far and wide. Michael was helping them spread, in his own way, his gift of wrath turning father against son, mother against daughter and bringing the common people to arms to join the fight. The war itself had been begun by Michael’s younger brother, the angel Lucifer, who had domain over pride. It had taken very little interference to push the royal brothers into a full blown civil war when both their egos were on the line.

Somewhere below Michael’s shadow a voice cried out – one living soul struggling amidst a sea of death. He searched the fields until his bright blue eyes came to rest upon the body of a young man, his face smeared with mud, his clothes stained with the blood of his enemies, or his friends. His body shook as he cried, but he seemed to be entirely unharmed. His curiosity piqued, the Angel of Death swept down towards the boy. Continue reading →

Parnassus Park

Written by Lost in a Dream

Even stone angels wear away in time...

Even stone angels wear away in time…

A neat row of marble statues either side of the path,
They certainly looked impressive under the street lights.
Symmetrical and complete.
Smooth marble so glossy I could almost see my reflection.

Yet, when I look into their eyes I can feel no story,
Just an empty, soulless stare.
I held their hands and tried to make a connection.
But I found them cold and hard.

Away from path, hidden among the undergrowth,
Their contemporaries gather:
A collection of stone angels
Sinking in the mud.
Their features rugged and incomplete.

In the knot of shrubbery,
With half-formed wings,
An incomplete angel offers a rugged hand.

Through the angel’s abrasive hands,
The sculptor carves his pain.
I could feel it, experience it.

It spoke more than a volume of polished prose.

If you enjoyed this beautiful poem by Lost in a Dream you’ll be pleased to hear that she has several more published in Inkblots! Here is a link to one of our favourites; “Masquerade“.

The Locked Room

Written by Bobartles


The grand double doors of the Oviatt Building in Los Angeles, California. These majestic works of art could very well reside with Gabe and Lucifer’s dad.
Image Courtesy of bigorangelandmarks.blogspot.co.uk

Peter took the steps three at a time, bounding towards the top floor at a speed a good deal greater than his wizened frame and long brown robes would seem to allow. He pushed through a small choir of residents on the landing, sending at least one priceless lyre crashing to the ground and knocking a small cherub over the banister, where it vanished into the gloom with a muffled curse.

“Sorry!” he called back, without stopping or turning to meet the indignant glares of the residents. Sandals slipping on the polished marble tiles, he turned the last corner and saw his quarry pacing back and forth outside a pair of very bright, very intricate and very heavy-looking golden doors.

“Gabe. What’s wrong?”

The man by the doorway winced a little and turned to face him. At nearly seven feet tall, he loomed over Peter like a strikingly blonde and particularly well-dressed oak. As he turned, his hand fell away from the slight bulge in his immaculate white suit jacket; the only indication of the concealed holster Peter knew lay beneath.

“Peter,” the man’s voice was deep and calm, but trembled slightly with hidden concern, “We’ve got a problem. He’s locked himself in again.”

“Again?” Peter glanced up at the ominous double doors. He raised an eyebrow and turned to his friend.

“Before you ask, I’ve tried knocking,” the white-clad man murmured, “I’ve called through, too. Hell,” he winced again, “I’ve even tried leaving him a message the old-fashioned way. That’s why I called you. It didn’t work. Not from me, and not from anyone else.”

“You mean…” Peter’s voice trailed off as he saw the panicked expression on the suited man’s face.

“Your kind were always his preferred children,” Gabe whispered, “Above us, above any others. He once said he’d do anything for you. And now he’s ignoring them.”

Peter muttered something foul under his breath. Gabe twitched.

“How long?” he asked. The man in white shrugged.

“I don’t come up here very often anymore. Nobody does. Could be hours, could be decades. But you just have to look down to see that something’s wrong. He’s lost interest.”

“Well…” Peter looked up at the doors, “Have you tried forcing your way in? Surely he’d understand that you were worried…” His voice trailed off as he saw the look on Gabe’s face.

“No. The last time that happened…” he closed his eyes and grimaced for a moment, before his expression changed suddenly to one of hope. “Wait. We can’t open it; trust me, you don’t want to know what he’s like when he’s angry. But…” he glanced up at the doors, to a slight bend in the upper right corner, “… there’s someone who’s done it before.”

Gabe flipped a slim mobile phone from his pocket; opened it with a snick of steel.

“John. It’s Gabriel. Get me the Morningstar.”


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