Dark wandering through poetry

There is a secret joy in writing. Something that I can't explain. Something that just hits y ou and then flows out of your fingers without thought. Sometimes it's a pure emotion such as sadness, or love, or hate, or indignation. Tonight, it was a childrens poem that rattled through my brain as I drove home. Something slightly darkish, slightly gothish.

A word about goths (my brethren). Goths aren't gloom and doom. That's Hollywood's idea of us. It's about the beauty in the darkness. How can you not look at Edwardian attire and not see how rich and lovely it is? Waistcoats, black velvets....ah...it makes my heart sing. Then there are the more industrial goths that are decked out in wetlook leather and plastics. We dance to music such as Alien Sex Fiend, The Cure, London After Midnight, NIN. Look them up because you'd be surprised at how varied the sounds are even within these groups. Loud and raucous, to mellodic and moody. And we dance as we want to as well. It's actually rather amazing to see because you have some of us that dance very controlled and use our arms and hands to make what I can only equate as "beautiful motions", and there are those of us that flail and bend like puppets without strings.

So, because my little black gothy heart had a childish side to it tonight (and possibly thanks to Harry Potter that I'm reading...book three almost on four), I wrote a little something called

THE GOTHY DANCE

Let’s go down that darkening path,
where the billyblogs do bloom,
and the sidelcreepers crawl along the muddy muddy path.
Into the woefull woods that grow beneath the moon,
and the little slivers never seem to last.

If an elflish happens to tickle your nose,
or a blossom reaches out to nibble on your knee,
remember that the path is dark only to them,
but bright and lovely for me.

Spiders hang their hammocks up,
and sleeping soundly do dream of us.
And eyes so red that they glow like coals,
greet us as we wander to and fro.

A sliver of the moon rests loudly on my shoulder,
and the velvet, which darker, sings a song to her my sister.
An old an ancient spirit roams these woods that are so dark,
but he is calling out to us to join him in the dance.

Somewhere in the clearing of brush and brambly wood,
the dead have come to celebrate and usher us within.
Large goblets of a liquid which is something quite unknown,
and tables upon scraps of bones that hold the flowery thrown.

And corpses dance with rare delight, and haggard werewolves too,
the band is playing gothy sounds from the skin that has tattoos.
A vampire pausing slightly, excusing himself from the bump,
delights in taking a nibble just before you jump.

That darkening world of wonder where all children know no fear,
the place where laughter comes from the sound of a single tear
that’s painted on the face of the goul who’s mad from dance,
and a bollyrog comes kalumping in to have himself a snack.

And on this night where you and I are dancing with our kind,
we know the world is safe and sound within the other’s minds.
For little is there now to dread from darkness, or their kind.
Our velvet and our painted eyes have found our brotherly kin.