Deadly Ever After

Haunting Poetry From Alistair Cross

TODAY’S BREW: An almost sexual amount of Hazelnut.

By Julie

You met my friend Alistair Cross, aka Jared S. Anderson for Flash Fiction Friday with an excerpt from his work in progress, The White Room. (You can read it here, and I highly suggest you do or else. I’m not done with him yet. I love his poetry, and so we bring you some of Alistair’s more eerie work in the spirit of the month and stuff. I’ll start with my favorite.

The Wooden Box

She wasn’t really beautiful

But she exuded such a grace

That it was easy to overlook

The imperfections of her face

She wasn’t unusually well-spoken

But she said such beautiful things

That you’d get caught up in her words

And give no attention to their meanings

She wasn’t remarkably brilliant

But she had such inscrutable insight

That it was easy to believe

She was ingenious and ultra-bright

She was never immoderately animated

But she looked so alive in red

That if she weren’t in that wooden box

I would have never known that she was dead

* * *

My Lovers Face

I never get tired

Of watching her face

It’s prettier now

Than it was in the first place

With my hands I explore

Every valley and peak

Of that beautiful face

Each night before sleep

And as for my deed

It had to be done

If ever I was

To be her only one

At first she was kind

But now she’s so cold

For, I love her to death…

She will never get old

And maybe it’s strange

Or so some would say

But at least they will never

Take her away

So, every night

To the icebox I traipse

Because that’s where I keep

My lovers face

*   *   *

Dark Hotel

At the top of the winding road

That was only evident through moonlight

Stood the hotels silhouette…

Tall and black against the night

I’m not sure where we were coming from

I’m not sure where we were going

But as we near the looming structure

I feel a nearly-eerie knowing

On a level deeper than instinct

And deeper than intellect

I know that I’ve been here before

Though I can’t fully recollect…

I don’t recall the lobby

Any stairs or any halls

But our room had scarlet carpet

And famous paintings on the walls

The hotel was bathed in silence

Yet I was somehow made aware

That you and I were not

The only creatures dwelling there

I approach an open window

Where red curtains billow inward

And I gaze on blackened trees

And hear the haunted songs of night birds

And you touch me on the shoulder

And whisper something in my ear…

Perhaps, a command I can’t remember

Or a rumor I wasn’t meant to hear

But those shapeless words sedate me

Like poison in warm milk

And as the clock strikes some late hour

We slip in sheets of wintered silk

…And the dream is a forewarning

Or so, at least, it seems

As I wake at breakneck speed

Just to wonder what it means

* * *

I, Madman

Sometimes I still dream of her

In a deep and empty splendor

A fool for love and money, yes

But I will still defend her

She is not my friend

And she will never be my love

But her lullaby soothes me gratefully

And shades me as it does…

Every river meets the sea

And waterfalls just slide

Into pools of dormant thought

And claim that they survived

But she was not a river…

Somewhat unlike me

And not at all a waterfall

This one was the sea…

I am still skating around

A truth I’ll never know

I have ravished all these rooms

And caught not one glimpse of her shadow

But sometimes at night

Outside my bedroom door

I hear her whisper through the light

That the moon casts on the floor

And in these chambers, like a grave

Days on end I weep

For a woman that is cold and gray

And buried six feet deep

* * *

Contact Alistair:

Twitter: @crossalistair


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One thought on “Haunting Poetry From Alistair Cross

  1. Awww, thanks. I am going to post a blog at: where I will divulge a little bit of backstory about each poem… 🙂

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