POETRY BY TOMAS ARANETA

Tomas Araneta is a writer who loves horror. He writes the occasional column in his local newspaper. He is also a co-host in the upcoming podcast “Not Your Average Opinion.” He loves all things horror, from books to movies, and of course, poetry. His favorite horror poet is the late Tom Piccirilli.

He lives in the Philippines.

IN THE ABYSS, LATE AT NIGHT

It’s late at night and I have to sleep
A need for a slumber so deep
If I stay awake a minute more
I might disappear forevermore

They told me to keep on the lights
With robbers and thieves prowling the night
Best to pretend someone is awake
A condition I have now to forsake

I closed my eyes and dreamed of the void
A world of darkness we all avoid
Streets as empty as my soul
My lone eye peering into the hole

Three knocks force me to wake
I hurry but I think it's a mistake
For who could be awake at this hour
If not the devil waiting to devour?

The knocking stopped as I went near
But it certainly amped up the fear
Nobody is there, as per the Magic Eye
In my heart, I knew this was a lie

I woke up again
Not knowing where or when
But I knew I had opened the door
In my hazy stupor

There she was, waiting for me
Arms outstretched; eyes black as ebony
And while I abandoned her before
She wanted me so much more

Late at night, and I am awake
There is no consolation, no break
Could there be a better bliss
Than being lost in the Abyss?

DREAMING OF THE DANCING LADY

Last night, I saw her again
Dancing on the street
Crushing the gravel with her feet
Not a care in the world

I’ve heard of her before
A tall tale for children to fall asleep
Scarier than counting sheep
Or the disappearing stars

I wonder if anyone knows her name
Her family and where she resides
And what she does to survive
The daily torment of life

The old people know she has a knife
That she will use it after her dance
If you see her, grab the chance
Run, run fast while you still can

Last night, I had a dream
I was on my way to my home
And the streetlights, they shone
On a dozen dancing women

They moved in a frenzied haze
And as I silently prayed
I caught sight of their hidden blades
While they do crude pirouettes

I awoke and I found myself on the street
Late at night
Carrying a knife
With a terrifying urge to dance

MY REMAINS

It was over when they came in
My blood on the floor
My head near the door
My feet in the bin

The rest were in the stew
My steaming pile of guts
Cooked in my fat
A most satanic brew

I could have heard your steps
If my ears were still attached
And not gruesomely detached
(They were so adept)

My remains could not represent
My rich and full life
Being the nicest and kindest wife
How quickly it all went!