TV Time

Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle

Run, run, run

Hurry, hurry, hurry

As fast as you can

So many things to do

So many things left undone

By the dip of the sun.

Night settles

For the thousandth time

And as you sit

With your drink

Eyes on the

TV screen

Wondering where

The day went

Your mind slows

Peace for now

Until the morrow.


Electronic beats drop a line

Steady hum and drum on low, back of my mind

Words set out in a row

Black font on a grey background.

Birds singing in the trees outside

Nature mingling with technology.

Social media notifications fall like an IV drip

Click the tab to see what’s going on

Lost in the unreal world of the Internet

Brain disconnected from the body.

Smoke on the Water

Chilling in between the sun and the shadows

Relatively free of weight

A light synth beat in my head

Broken angel wings strewn across the bed

Shining with dew and fairy dust.

Open curtains at the windows

Letting in late summer light

Autumn on the horizon with its scent of death

Carried on ghostly fingers like a lover’s breath

Trembling with the fragility of time.

Complex Ticking

“The state of one’s heart,” Gala countered,

“Is not so simple as that.”

And take heed – this is true.

There are moments of weakness

(Much more common, I find)

And there are moments of strength

(Hard to locate, but not nonexistent).

Depression can make you want to

Alter your physical appearance

While happiness can make you feel beautiful.

But the exterior is just a mold

Ever-changing, hardly more than putty

In a petulant child’s fist.

Why prize it so highly?

You may be pleased with your countenance

But while your heart is in shards

It does you little good.

Better to let the putty melt a bit

Better to let the child deform it a little

If a healthy heart is the end result.

Armageddon: A Story in Verse (Part 1)

Two thousand and sixty-six years

On top of decades already unnumbered

Will find the two armies upon the battlefield

Wherever it may be, that Armageddon.


A white King and a dark prince

Each seated atop his steed

The King on a pale horse made of holy fire

The prince on a black horse made of lies.


Each will have an army ranged behind him

One light, and one dark

One right, and one wrong

Dark destined to be slaughtered by the King’s fiery blade.


He is a King of love, gentle as a lamb

But He roars like a lion, too

His blade won’t falter on the final day

When the black army stands against Him.


On His right-hand is Anna Berlin

On His left-hand is Vaya Eleria

Two vampire princesses pledged to the King

For the vast stretch of eternity.


Children of an evil sovereign

Whose bloodlust once separated them

Lovers in life, now lovers in death

Shining war blades in the King’s scabbards.


Ranged behind them are countless others

All black sinners while they breathed

Their lungs filled now with His clean spirit

Though their hearts have ceased to beat.


The dark prince taunts the king

Flaunts hell-fire in his clawed hands

Nods his horned head in satisfaction

While the sun gleams against his scales.


The King wears a blank expression

His fair face betrays nothing

Though His clear eyes shine with sadness

For His lost dragon-child.


But the dragon only laughs at Him

His black eyes flaring in the burning light

Wildfires rage around him

Circling his soldiers on all sides.


The black soldiers clutch the fire

Scooping it up in their dirty hands

Hurling it towards the King

While the dragon laughs.


© C.M. Blackwood 2016

King of Angels

Looking out a darkened window

Not a shred of light remains

Not an outline can be traced

Yet still, my heart is fain


To think that it might see

A fair shape looming nigh

Not part of land, nor part of earth

But reaching towards the sky.


Floating gently in the velvet vault

Like footprints on the mountaintop

Towering up, and jutting across

Like a staircase made of honey pots.


I have seen the steps before me

And I know just where they lead —

Like pale smoke from the chimney

They climb to my mighty King.


© C.M. Blackwood 2016

A Strange Art Form.



Book-writing is a strange art form. On the one hand, it envelopes your entire being; but on the other hand, it is oftentimes difficult to put pen to paper without a drink or two down one’s gullet.

One day, a nearly-finished book appears shadowy, insufficient, and lacking in all its most important aspects. But the next — it is a thing of beauty, a thing of genius. Certain music brings the words to life, invoking thoughts of the sounds one would hear, and the scenes one would see, if ever the book were to be made into a motion picture.

And this is every author’s dream — yes? But it is a very obscure dream. Like blood in the veins; or wine through foggy glass.

But still, we must write. When no one is there to read the words, still we must write. And someday, if millions are there to read the words — still we will write.


A strange art form, this process of book-writing. It is little by little, and it wrings the blood from one’s skin. Yet the blood flows down upon the page — and when we are dead, we may look down from heaven, and see eyes upon our lost blood: eyes upon the pages we have written.


Love on the Tracks.



There’s a place over the tracks

Where our hands our clasped

Where the wind blows heavy

And the hour is late.


There’s a train down the line

And it won’t take much time

Before it reaches the place

Where we stand alone.


Stay with me till it comes

And don’t try to run

When the lights draw near

And the hour is done.



The SYMPHONY Series: Symphony in Grey.


In the far corner of a black room

A little boy sat

‘Twas night and quiet as a tomb

He shivered ‘neath his hat.


There was no light to lead him on

So he stayed where he was fixed

Since night fell down, and shadows danced

He had not made a twitch.


He twiddled his thumbs, and pulled on his hat

And then looked all around

For the brim of dark was teeming

And there was no one to be found.




Little Johnny — before he realized that he was about to be eaten by monsters.