Mist gathers where no bell has rung,
A silent road forgets the day.
The night recalls an older tongue,
And every footstep loses way.
A silent road forgets the day;
Two embers bloom where eyes should be.
And every footstep loses way,
As darkness breathes beneath the tree.
Two embers bloom where eyes should be,
No chain can bind that dreadful tread.
As darkness breathes beneath the tree,
The living fear what hunts the dead.
No chain can bind that dreadful tread;
Its breath is smoke, its heart is flame.
The living fear what hunts the dead,
Yet none can rightly speak its name.
Its breath is smoke, its heart is flame.
Mist gathers where no bell has rung.
Yet none can rightly speak its name,
The night recalls an older tongue.
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Author:
Matthew R. Callies (
Offline) - Published: October 3rd, 2026 08:59
- Comment from author about the poem: This poem is about the legendary hellhound. Just in case you've never heard of it, here's a link for more information: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hellhound
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 10
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
- In collections: Heroes, Gods and Monsters, Poems for Spooktober.
Offline)
Comments3
Sign of the time.
This reminded me of "The hound of the Baskervilles" a Sherlock Holmes novel by Sir Author Conon Doyle. But the story is archetypal and reaches back into the primal fears of night and wolves and maybe the Dire Wolf itself. Werewolves and their fiction. Nicely done
Oh hell yes, Matthew...a hellhound on the moor? You had me immediately. This is exactly the kind of darkness I enjoy wandering into. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
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