Norbert Gora

The April Chosen Poet is Norbert Gora

Please feel free to email Norbert at: norbert.gora@aol.co.uk

Norbert Gora


In this forest
tears composed of blood
covers the surface of leaves.

The darkest heart
beats here, its owner
has a mouth full of hatred,
sewn shut.

Charred skin, apogee of pain,
covered with an invisible cloak,
but its breath is perceptible like a wind.

Whatever it is,
waiting patiently,
for its pleasure time,
for your suffering moments.

What brought it here?
Human souls, filled with emotions
like pitchers.

The last cuckoo
is about to fly away,
an old clock starts
a litany of death.

You go faster for your life,
cogs of the senses fail,
but the burnt nightmare
still keeps an eye on you.

You run away, terrified,
driven by an illusory hope,
straight into the embrace of Apocalypse.

The last shout pierced the tree,
the darkest heart absorbed
strings of the remaining life.

Your half-eaten body,
hollowed out like a trunk,
doesn’t satisfy the appetite
of inhabitant hidden in the blackness.

Filthy paws will emerge
from the obscurity,
repeatedly, until the last bitter tears.


Her eyes sparkled with fear,
when she looked at his face.

Eyeballs pierced with thorns
frightened more than death.

Streams of blood flowed out
slowly of either eye socket.

Disembodied voice of silence
enslaved her lips,
did not allow to say goodbye.

Thorny path of agony has been created.


I closed the book with a dull tap,
the time of Morpheus,
finally came.

When I turned off the light,
she was revealed,
radiating white.

My heart fired
a firecracker of fear,
nightmare paralyzed me.

I yelled, seeing her sad eyes,
her dress like a silk,
lowered to pine planks.

“Do you remember me,
you horrid deceiver?” she asked,
levitating above the floor.

Lucille, my princess, betrayed by me,
returned from the boundless world
of darkness.

“You will be begging me to stop,
when I get back to the afterlife,
then you will be paler than me
and this world left behind.”

Her words, like a knife, cut my throat,
she began to dance, delightedly,
whispering unknown, dangerous words.

It can’t be, I thought, but my mind
began to be enveloped by madness; her image,
as a glass drenched with water, melted.

She danced a mad dance
until the door of realism
closed behind me.

I lost the sight of the reality,
I saw only the hellish,
screaming faces of evil.

Norbert Gora is a 25-year-old poet and writer from Poland. Many of his horror, sci-fi and romance short stories have been published in his home country. He is also the author of many poems in English-language anthologies around the world.