United Kingdom

perpetual state of confusion
probably procrastinating
nothing is real
have a good day

Message to Readers

this was so so fun to write
hope you enjoy!
The conversations are between the poet with many names and her yet to be named raven witch lover/friend

Dark academia escapism (in which a poet who has many names resides in a mansion with a ghost and a clock, and converses with her raven lover)

May 11, 2021


candles flicker, dancing dreams as red wax drips on a mahogany desk. shadows cavort around my head and whisper piano concertos, ink falls from a silver nibbed pen, and i write poems and when i'm done i set them on fire and toss them in the hearth. lying on thread bare faded deeply patterned carpet, I gaze at an unlit chandelier that seems to spin above me like a moon. I spread books bound in leather around me like islands, and scrawl words on thick paper that smells like musty robes and forgotten breaths, and on my head I place a dusty tiara, and monologue to the tea dregs in a chipped flower cup. 

The boy, who is yet to tell me his name, comes thrice daily, when the sun is behind a cloud. He hovers, barely visible above the mantelpiece, smiling at me in the gilt glass; we dance together by candlelight and he plucks piano notes from the air, and bows, low. 

At dawn each day a raven swoops through mosaic glass, and lies a wing on my cheek as I sleep. Black feathers like ink and eyes oddly blue, like someone bottled the sky and placed it on my scratched desk. When I wake the raven is gone, but there is a feather on my pillow, and a naked maiden with ink black hair and sky eyes hanging upside down from my four poster bed. She jumps down and pulls the curtains from their post, wrapping velvet roses around her like a shroud. We meander down changing stairs and in the cavernous banquet hall we drink honey coloured tea from silver mugs. Then we lie side by side on the table top and she reads my fortunes in the ceiling.

The old man in the clock is my mentor and teacher and he emerges twice a day, when the clock strikes 13. The grandfather clock door opens and he steps out, shakes his gown and places his musty hat on his head. Together we sit in my study beneath the chandelier, him on an old leather arm chair, me pacing before the fire like a beast. He reads my hand written words, running his tongue along his teeth and nodding and tutting and tapping a long jointed finger against his temple.  When he has praised or criticised the pourings of my heart I lead him to the large oak tree besides the house and we recite Shakespeare to it's bowing branches. When the clock strikes 12 again he leaves, with a curt nod, taking a sheaf of paper with him into the clock. 

I wish someday you would fly somewhere my dear- what am I to call you today?

Ophelia today my friend, I'm feeling melodramatic

Well Ophelia, won't you leave with me?

You know I am bound to this place 

But you're not, you're not, the boy is bound, the man in the clock is bound, but you are as free as a bird!

You're the bird my friend, (a ghost of a smile, or perhaps the ghost smiled) and this is my gilded cage and I wouldn't leave it for the world

I could offer you the world 

Go now, bird, the ink and the fire and scent of sweet tea does beckon me

Till tomorrow then, Ophelia

Till tomorrow

Some days I think this place has addled your brain

What makes you think that? I waltz with a ghost boy and recite poetry with a clock, and my lover turns to feathers every evening

You say that like I'm cursed Cassandra

I say it like I'm cursed 

Neither of us are cursed. I can leave any time, I'm not bound to this place

A beat 

And neither are you 

What are you writing

My name's, all the names I've worn this week

A beat

Well read them out

Blanche Dubois 

Blanche Dubois?

Remember that day I got drunk and danced the polka in a red ball gown?

Ah yes. Blanche Dubois



See History
  • May 11, 2021 - 6:53am (Now Viewing)

Login or Signup to provide a comment.

  • Paisley Blue

    Oh man I adore this!!!

    2 months ago
  • Written_In_Water

    Like literally - this has got to be some of my favourite fiction prose I've ever read

    2 months ago
  • Written_In_Water

    Wow. I love the prose bit of this one (and I loved the other one that was just dialogue as well) - the idea and the whole thing is just so so so engaging and brilliant and you could just take this and keep writing and you'd have a bestseller no problem - it's soooooo brilliant!!!!!!!

    2 months ago