literature

The Alchemist

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Literature Text

My family tree,
has blood on it's leaves.
In autumn in rains
little red droplets
gathering in a pool of madness
around the trunk.
My father,
his father,
his father before him
all meeting the same fate.
An early grave,
and my family tree
grows twisted and gnarled
straight out of it
roots going deep,
back to Henri the Comte
the forefather of my heritage.

Back hundreds of years
when the castle
I've grown up in,
was an impregnable
fortress, feared
and respected.
And on these grounds
a man named Micheal resided
a rather godly name covering over
the surname of Mauvais, the Evil.
Philosopher’s Stone,
whispered to him in his sleep.
Elixir of Eternal Life,
his constant sought after dream.
His beckoning mistress,
Black Magic and Alchemy.

Mauvais had one son,
Charles.
Charles the Sorcerer,
a name all his own
like his father.
Someone to share
his shunned life with.
Together cut off
like an unwanted growth
by the good people of society.
The god-fearing.
Who held their children tight
that they may not be taken
by the boogieman,
who to the fire
sacrificed his own wife.
Yet for all his evil,
old man loved his offspring
with fierce intensity.

This matters,
for one night their came
an uproar to that castle grand.
Young Godfrey,
son to Henri the Comte,
had come up missing.
Henri led the search party
his frantic state, grabbing hold
of his finger and pointing
at the cottage of the sorcerers.
Door burst open
torchlight illuminated
Michel Mauvais, busy before
a boiling cauldron.
And the fathers frantic hands
found their hold around Michel's
neck.
Choking.
The breath in him
ceased to be.
Too late for joyful servants
to herald young Godfrey had been found
in an unused castle chamber.

Safe and sound.

In that moment
the form of Charles
slowly came through the trees
with these words for Comte
“May ne’er a noble of thy murd’rous line
Survive to reach a greater age than thine!”
He splashed a vial in Henri's eyes
before Charles forever disappeared
into the inky night.

Comte was buried the next day,
thirty two years of age.
And the blood on his hands
still drips to this day
with each passing male
in this family.

My name Antione
the Comte,and tonight
I face that same age.
Thirty two,
just like my father
dying shortly before my birth
and my mother shortly after.
Leaving me in the crypt
this castle has become
with only my man servant
Pierre to care for me.
Me, last in line
of this dark legacy.
I know all this,
for I was given a document
by my manservant Pierre
before like mother and father
he left me too.
Alone.
Buried him in the old courtyard
this morning, where
in life he loved there
most.

The devil was coming for me
this I knew.
Rather than hole up in the library
clutching books to my chest
I went deep into the lower levels,
where only the quiet
lingered for years, betwixt
adornment of dust, cobweb, and shadow.
There in the dark,
I found a trap door.

Upon opening,
I descended into darkness
my torch leading the way.
Noxious odors,
pressing against me.
Still I continued,
step after step in these
long hidden corridors until
I passed through
a heavy oak door,
...
without warning,
slamming shut behind me.

My brain froze,
set on fire by horror.
I was no longer alone,
as in the corner of my eye
I could see my dread.
A human figure breathing heavily
beckoning me with each passing
breath to greet him with both eyes.
I turned,
to see him.
Flowing medieval tunic,
to catch his cascading beard
intensely black,
like his eyes
drawing me,
in constrast to his pale
marble like skin  
wrapping his flesh,
in wrinkles and sunken features
leaving me aghast.
Praticly a a skeleton
clad in a skull-cap,

Eyes, those eyes
from the abyss peered into my soul
I felt an ancient anger,
so much hatred bending
this man to it's will.
And in a hollow voice
this visage of contempt
spoke in the ancient tongue
of latin.
Spoke of the curse
it's roots intermixed
with my family tree.
The blood flowing
were leaves should be.
Like my father's before me
I was next,
the last in line
the final revenge.
His words shed themselves
of latin, revealing
a hissing sound.

The stranger
raised a glass phial high
with full intent
of ending my life.
Instinct.
Preservation.
I broke through
the spell of fear,
hurling my torch
at this deep dwelling
demon.

Upon breaking
the liquid from the phial
burst into flames
that swallowed up
the phantom.
It's horrific hunger reducing
him to a burnt leftover
before extinguishing.
Still alive,
I drew close to his side
desperate to understand
the why.
"Why would you carry on
this curse? Why would
you want to kill me?
You may be old enough
to snuff out my father
but there were so many others
before he.
Six Centuries
of a family."
And in reply
through cracked lips
he whispered.
"Don't you understand,
   I am Charles
   the Sorcerer."

   
This one took several days to craft into a poem of my own. Retelling H.P. Lovecraft's 1908 short story The Alchemist. My second retooling of Lovecraft's work with the hope of bringing new fans into the Lovecraft fold. Definately going to have to edit this one a few times but for now enjoy. FEEDBACK appreciated :)
© 2014 - 2024 HamsterScribbles
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cookiebaby722's avatar
This really deep! very well written i was caught up in it from the start very impressive i paritically like this part : Instinct.
Preservation.
I broke through
the spell of fear,
hurling my torch
at this deep dwelling
demon.

very well put :)