When Horror Whispered and I Listened Not

I.

He came not as a ghost in chains,

Nor crawled from crypts or clawed through rains,

But quiet, clothed in mortal thought,

He was the Horror no fire had fought.

A shadow shaped like man and myth,

With eyes not black, but depthless with

The silent scream of untold grief—

He offered words, not curses brief.

“Come,” he said, “let me unfold

The world behind the warmth you hold.

You think you see, you think you write,

But blind men, too, have claimed the light.”

I sat—unmoved—my pen still firm,

For I had danced through every term

Of scripture, satire, soul, and sin—

He would not pull me deep within.

II.

“You write of love,” said he, “how vain,

When all that loves must taste the bane.

You claim that man has dreams and soul,

Yet war and hunger mark your scroll.

You think affection conquers fear—

Then why, oh poet, do I hear

Your heart beat louder when I’m near?”

A laugh escaped me, dry and wise—

I’d heard this tale in many guise.

I’ve seen him in the church’s pew,

In golden lies men hold as true.

I’ve seen him in the lover’s eyes

When promises are turned to lies.

He hides beneath the wishful tear,

In beauty twisted by the seer.

III.

But still, he walked and whispered more,

A sermon shaking sacred floor.

He said, “You speak of piety,

Of saints and souls set wholly free—

Yet man builds gods to match his pride,

Then kills the truths he cannot hide.”

He pierced the altar of my youth

And played the flute of bleeding truth.

The songs he sang—I’d heard them all—

In courtroom, temple, prison hall.

They echoed in a widow’s cry,

In starving babes too weak to die.

He wore no cloak but human flaws,

No devil’s horn, no demon’s laws.

IV.

Still, I replied with voice of steel,

“My soul was born not just to feel.

It knows the dark, the death, the pit—

Yet rises not to run, but sit.

To write while fire eats the page,

To see through storms that cloud the age,

To feel, yes—deep—but never fall,

To know and still reject your call.

For horror has a clever tongue,

But truth is deeper, wiser, young.

You show the world and say ‘It’s vile!’

I show it too—but stay awhile.

You end where pain begins to seethe—

I write until my soul can breathe.”

V.

And so, he grew in shape and might,

While I became my inner light.

He haunted windows, scratched at doors,

But found no welcome on my floors.

He told me dreams were made of rot,

But I knew well the truth he fought:

That humans love, and err, and break,

And still, by dawn, their hopes awake.

They lie, deceive, and mock the skies—

Yet kneel by graves with tear-filled eyes.

They raise false prophets, stone the wise—

Yet give their bread when famine cries.

They build on bones, they play with death—

Yet sing to babes with trembling breath.

VI.

I saw his eyes begin to dim,

As if he feared the truth in him.

“You do not fear me,” he confessed.

“You listen, but you won’t be pressed.

You face me with the writer’s blade,

And twist my truths in light they fade.”

I said, “Your truth is but a half—

The cruelest kind, the tyrant’s laugh.

You know the fall, but not the climb,

You see the death, but not the time

A mother rocked a son to sleep—

And in that love, no shadows creep.

You count the corpses, miss the kiss

That bloomed before the dark abyss.”

VII.

Then he grew bitter, raw, and old.

He raged and shook and cursed the fold.

But I stood firm, a voice, a pen—

The memory, the mind of men.

He screamed of wars, of crimes, of hell,

But I had more than he to tell.

Of men who died for love, not land.

Of strangers reaching out a hand.

Of broken hearts that did not turn

To stone, but let the sorrow burn

Into a poem, prayer, or song—

The kind that makes the lost live long.

VIII.

“Why do you write?” he cried at last.

“Why chase a dream that cannot last?

The world is cracked, your God is gone,

The mirror lies, the clock ticks on!”

And then I smiled—beneath the stars,

With ink-stained hands and healing scars—

“I write because you think you’ve won.

Because your night still fears the sun.

Because you strike, but do not kill

The thing that gives the soul its will.

I write because despite your grip,

I still taste honey on my lip.

Because I see through all your smoke

The little child who once awoke

To wonder, not to wear or weight—

And that, old ghost, you cannot hate.”

IX.

So Horror left me—never gone—

But lessened, for he knew my song.

He haunts, but I am not his kin.

His house stands—but I walk within.

For man is made of blood and flame,

Of cruelty and sacred name.

Of sins he hides, of truths he learns—

Of ash he holds, of light he earns.

Let horror howl, let darkness swell—

I know his tale. I’ve heard him well.

But I am writer—flesh and soul—

And not his pawn, nor part, nor goal.

X.

And now I ask you, reader true:

When horror knocks and calls to you,

Will you collapse? Or hear and rise?

Will you make myth, or merely cries?

Will you write on, though hearts are torn?

Or live to mourn, but not be worn?

Each line I write defies his grin.

Each truth I tell lets daylight in.

For though the dark is vast and sure,

The soul of man can still endure.

Final Words:

Let this be the record carved in rhyme:

That pain may last—but not for all time.

And those who hold the pen of truth

May turn the grave into a booth

Of living words, eternal breath—

A song that even conquers death.