In the ink of night, where shadows dance like whispers,  
Rides the Dullahan, headless, relentless.
Upon a steed as black as the void it carries.  
Eyes that are not there, see everything.
A mouth that does not speak screams silently.
For he is the herald of death,  
The unyielding messenger of the inevitable.

The road stretches endlessly under the moon’s cold gaze,  
As if the earth itself shudders at his coming.  
The Dullahan rides, a figure draped in darkness,  
Where laughter dies in the throat,  
Where hope flees like a hunted thing.  
He holds his head high, cradled like a grotesque lantern,  
Its grin wide, eyes rolling… searching
For the soul he seeks; for the life he will claim.

The air hangs heavy with the weight of his curse.
The clatter of hooves a dirge,  
An echo of finality that chills the marrow.  
Villages dare not whisper his name,  
Lest they summon his wrath;
Lest they feel the sweep of his unseen gaze.

No lock can bar his path.
No gate can halt his ride.  
For the Dullahan is unbound by the chains of the living,  
A spectre of grim purpose;
A harbinger of the end we all must meet.

And when he halts,  
When his steed rears before a trembling door,  

Silence falls like a shroud,  
And the air thickens with dread.

Yet, even as the Dullahan rides on,  
There is a flicker of something more.  
A mirror to our own mortality;
A reminder that the end is not an end,  
But merely the dark side of the moon.
A passage to the unknown.

So, listen for the hooves in the night.
Feel the chill that climbs your spine,  
And remember:  
The Dullahan rides for us all,  

One by one,  
Until the end of time.

(c)BobChristian

The three stages of life: Youth, manhood, old age. The reaper uses his scythe To sever the thread of life,

Grandfather Time

I once told my wife she was wrong. Yeah, that only 

happened once.  

The walls took a deep breath like they were about to dive into drama,  

The clock decided to take a coffee break.

Even the cat gave me that “Dude?” look  

before moonwalking out of the room.

(c)BobChristian

A fluffy feline, all cuteness and coos,

Lulls the world with her innocent ruse.

But when the lights dim, a switch she flicks

Her furry façade hides her secrets and tricks.

For under the moonlight this agent elite

Prowls with a purpose, a master of sneak.

Leaping through shadows, her movements so fleet,

Unraveling mysteries, the world at her feet.

This furry ‘James Bond’, this cat of intrigue,

Keeps the world safe, though she acts like a geek.

By day she’s a kitten, all purrs and delight,

But by night she’s a warrior ready to fight!

(C)BobChristian

Yesterday evening I saw a reel. Or short video, on Facebook.

It explains how to make a mirror-ball, you have to break lots of pieces of glass to create a beautiful item that shines beautifully.

So when you think you’re broken. Your not broken, your a just sparkly mirror-ball.

I then reimagined what was said, into this

Disco resurrection
(c)BobChristian

Shattered shards, once discarded and forgotten,
Now gathered, polished, and reborn.
A disco ball, a beacon in the night,
Flashing, flirting, a mesmerizing sight.
Fractured fragments, their edges sharp and true,
Transformed into something wondrous, anew.
A symbol of resilience, a dance of light,
Your flishy, flashy, sparkling splendour, a dazzling delight.

(Words & Images (c)BobChristian)

I get it.
It’s easier to make monsters
than mirrors.

Easier to dip brushes
in blame,
color the past in broad strokes
of “he hurt me”
instead of “I’m broken too.”

You hang our history
in that museum of memory
where every frame
features someone else’s failure
never your fingerprints
on the shattered glass.

I walk those halls sometimes.
See myself,
fangs bared,
eyes red,
a villain stitched together
from every lie
you needed to tell yourself
to sleep.

Each canvas:
a scream
trapped in acrylic.
Each name:
a tombstone
in your mental mausoleum.

But how many portraits
before you realize
the only common thread
is the hand holding the brush?

You keep painting
to forget,
to stay numb,
to convince the world
it was always them,
never you.

But healing don’t live
in curated suffering.

When you finally scrape
the layers off the canvas,
look past the shadows,
see the soft ghosts
of your own mistakes
haunting the corners

maybe then
you’ll paint something honest.
Something messy.
Something real.

Not a gallery of grief,
but a window.

Not a villain.
Not a victim.
Just a girl
who learned to tell the whole story
out loud.

Last night I sat down with Dog and he asked me to share his thoughts with you…

Dear Hoomum.

Thank you for my house,
Taking time to throw my
Mouse.

For taking me on your
Walks, all our little daily
Talks.

All those snuggles, naps
We share, sorry about all the
Hair.

Thank you for the food you
Bring, thank you mum for
Everything.

(C)BobChristianpoetry

(C)SheldonTiberius

By Bob W Christian

If this place could talk,
The stories it would tell!
Trapped within these
Walls for their eternity,
Gliding along corridors.

Pictures gathering dust,
Snapshots of the past.
This gallery of memories,
Life frozen, doomed to be
Repeated on an endless loop.

Voices call to me from
Empty rooms. Ghostly
Echoes from the past.
Whispers from beyond
My reality, now falling silent.

Memories, emotions,
Regrets. Forever
Haunting me.

(c)BobChristianpoetry

(C)Bob Christian Poetry

Poetry 101

Searching deep within me,
Down where the light never dared to go
Not in the surface shine,
but the murk, the dark corners of my soul
where the echoes of forgotten selves still whisper.

I’m searching my memories
Flipping through the dust of who I used to be,
Finding pieces like old letters
folded between the pages of time,
never meant to be read again,
but here I am
reading them aloud.

Exploring, revisiting
Reliving feelings that got buried,
that got lost in the hustle,
crushed under the weight of time.
I’m recording them anew,
I’m resurrecting what was dead,
spitting it back out,
like blood on metal
red ink, sharp and raw,
burning the page with the fire of truth.

Words flow out,
like a flood that’s been waiting to drown me.
I stand here, vocalising
terrible, beautiful, brutal,
my feelings laid bare
waiting for your approval,
but knowing I don’t need it.

Head down,
leaving the stage,
it’s over now
I’ve given it my all,
laid my bones out in front of you,
like a broken mirror reflecting everything I am,
everything I was,
everything I’ll never be again.
It’s over.
But I’ve said it.
And it’s all still alive in me.