The moth and the flame

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Love is like the stars

Showing you the way

And guiding

You safely home

When you are alone

And afraid

In a dark,

Frozen wasteland


Love is sweet

Like a sugar rush

And pure like honey

She is kind and gentle

Always happy to see you

Wipes away your tears

Gives you a sense of security


Love is a drug

Like a shot of cocaine

Running through your veins

Her blissful exotic perfume

Powerful and intoxicating

Suffusing your body and soul

With ecstasy, joy and serenity


Love blossoms like a flower

And needs nurturing

But love isn’t always a bed of roses

Her petals can shrivel and die

And love can be cruel

With her razor-sharp thorns


Love is like the sea

And a herd of wild horses

It can be unpredictable

A passionate force of nature

Dragging you to icy depths

And through burning hot coals


Love is the unity

Of two eternal flames

That fuse and become one

And an invisible chord

That bonds two spirits together

But love takes commitment

To keep her candle burning bright

Or the flame will extinguish

And the chord disintegrate


Love is cocooned

In the chalice of

Each beloved’s heart

Her flame burning

Incandescent white

Like an angel’s halo

Brighter than a galaxy of stars

Blinding the moon

And making the sun

Look like a moth


Never take love lightly

But if you embrace her

You will discover

The true meaning of life


And even when

The ruby wax melts

And turns

Stone cold

The unwavering flame

Will still glow


In the embers

For love transcends life

And lasts forever


Copyright © 2017 Anne D Morgan



About Annie

Source: About Annie

Over the horizon


Bright, billowing white sails like angel wings

 Shimmer beatifically

In the opalescent moonlight

As an ethereal ship

Disappears over the horizon

Towards a golden lighthouse

Beaming like a giant halo

 Across distant, mystic shores

Leaving a trail of footprints

In the golden sand

And a blaze of shooting stars



When frost dusts the trees

And the leaves turn brown

When there is a chill in the air

And rain lashes down

When the desolate road is rocky

And darkness falls

When fear

Coils around your heart

Like a serpent of thorns

When you feel you are drowning

And struggle to breathe

And the waves pull you down

Into the icy black sea

When thunder roars

And lightening bolts

When aquatic stallions

Rise from the deep

In angry revolt

When ships are smashed

Into tiny smithereens

And the gloomy wasteland


With skeleton leaves


When you hear the birdsong

On a crisp Spring morn

And inhale fragrant

Pink rose petals

In the roselit dawn


When a tiny white butterfly

Unfurls her crumpled wings

Glistening like a snowflake

On a dewy emerald leaf


When the sun gently dries

Your tear soaked cheeks

And melts the icicles

That stitch your eyelashes together

Like frozen barbed wire

And sea water heals

The slashes on your wrists

Carved deep when grief

Was etched raw

On your heart

When you fall into a deep slumber

Fuelled by booze and pills

Stalked by insomnia and nightmares


When clouds float peacefully

Across dreamy daisy meadows

And juicy blackberries ripen

In the russet hedgerows


When chestnuts roast

And log fires burn in the hearth

When the embers glow

And a warm light fills your heart


When a canopy of frozen stars

Blaze like demonic fireflies

 Across the ebony sky

And a flurry of snowflakes

Turn the world dazzling white

So beautifully cruel

When frostbite

Turns your lips blue

And you are skating blind

 On a jagged sheet of black ice


Soon it will be Spring again

When new buds will form

The ice will slowly thaw

From your bleak, shivering bones

And the blizzard will blow away

Winter’s crown of icy thorns


Copyright © 2017 Anne D Morgan


When dusk falls the sinner’s

Lonely pyre is solemnly lit

With tinder full of woodworm

And choking with dry rot

The holy river shivers


Tiny flames like crimson rose buds

Ignite and bloom

Into fiery serpent flowers

With bright, dancing petals

Of incandescent orange, red and blue

Devouring the deceased

Like voracious beasts

The Stars weep


As smoke trails away

And the smouldering ashes

Are gently cleansed

Temple bells ring

And a new day dawns


Copyright © 2017 Anne D Morgan


Stallions and Sirens

A demonic, testosterone fuelled

Galloping heard

Of aquatic stallions

Crash fearlessly

Against the shore

Pebble grey with steely manes,

Tongues lolling, eyes rolling

Foaming at the mouth


Forks of diamond white lightening

Slash and burn

The melancholy, inky night

Thunder rages fiercely

Like a tormented beast

The silver alpine moon shivers,



Wind howls and lashes the

Huge equine beasts

With her frozen tongue

Like an ethereal horses whip

As they rear up on their hind legs

Tangled manes dripping with salty water

Flanks glistening with briny sweat

Ruby calves, shredded by coral


Doomed pirate ships carrying cargos of lost souls

Are hurled ferociously against the rocks

Like flimsy matchsticks

And smashed into tiny pieces


Scattered like a pile of rubbish over

Jagged rocks along the shore

Torn bodies,

Prostrate like dead starfish

Or Jesus on the Cross

Lie in tatters like bloody rags

Hair strewn with oily coils

Of tar and seaweed

Encrusted with tiny crabs

And bloody seashells

Cracked blue lips caked

With wet sand and barnacles


The stallions’ nightmarish watery jaws

Swallow bodies whole

Plummeting them

Into the frozen underworld

Finally, free

From their hellish

Living nightmares


Neptune’s beatific sirens

Like otherworldly ice maidens

Wearing iridescent white gowns

And garlands of shimmering seashells

Bury the dead

In their watery graveyard

Weeping silently

Murmuring ‘May God rest their souls’


Meanwhile, ghostly hags

Shrouded in ancient black veils

Like inconsolable, jilted widows

Clutch the bloated corpses

Of long drowned sailors


Restless Spirits entwine

Like a mangled mass of

Congealed cobweb jelly fish

Then float into the blind abyss

With sinners and whores


Majestic Golden Hinds

Appear on the horizon

Filled with weary travellers

Rubbing dreamy eyes

Devilish nightmares are swept away

With the swish of a sail


Exhausted stallions retreat

As the merciful dawn unfolds

Like sweet, fragrant rose petals

Gentle waves lap the shore

Caressing the hooves

Of milky white mares

and tiny newborn foals

Sirens comb their silky hair

Sitting on bejewelled rocks

Once more peace is restored



Copyright © 2017 Anne D Morgan


Ashes & Sand – 1st prize LSJ short story comp

July Short Story Competition Winner

Here is link to the website:

July 2016 – Short Story

1st – Anne Morgan

Ashes & Sand

By Anne Morgan – 1st Place

Present day – St Ives

Flies swarmed round the headless, bloated corpse as screeching seagulls circled overhead like vultures. It was a sweltering morning in August. An ethereal figure of a young man hovered nearby as the sun scorched his skinny bones. In life, his eyes were piercing sapphire blue and broke hearts.

The mangled torso entwined in seaweed had been found by a woman out jogging just after dawn, washed up on Peregrine* beach.

As the body was driven away, three more ghostly figures of a middle aged couple & a young woman joined the young man and floated down the beach towards the sea.

Steadying his hand, knife poised, the rookie pathologist prepared to make his first incision.

Week earlier

James arrived in St Ives mid-afternoon after driving down from London with his mother’s ashes to scatter in the sea. She had taken an overdose. Beside her body was an envelope containing a letter.

A month earlier, London’s notorious black cab serial killer had been suffocated in his hospital bed. In her final letter, his mother had confessed to the killing.

James sunk several whiskeys in The Fisherman’s Tavern before heading unsteadily down to the beach where he had spent idyllic summers as a child. The waves, like wild stallions, were coming in fast and storm clouds brewing.

Eight months earlier

On Christmas Eve the mutilated remains of Saskia, James’s teenage sister, had been discovered dumped in bin liners near Embankment. She had been raped, strangled, stabbed & butchered. She was Jonathan Hardy’s third victim. Shortly afterwards he was arrested after his forth potential victim, an off duty police officer, fought back.

Saskia’s distraught mother, Jenny, recent widow of slain mobster Johnny Mack (whose killers were never apprehended) vowed revenge.

Month earlier

Thanks to ‘inside’ contacts at the prison where Mack was on remand, Jenny orchestrated a frenzied attack which would put him in hospital. An anonymous tip off revealed the whereabouts.

Disguised as an agency nurse, with a stolen ID badge, all she had to do was hold her nerve and foil the prison guard stationed outside his room. She would put the pillow over his head and personally finish the job.

Returning home, Jenny wrote her blue eyed boy a letter before calmly swallowing a handful of Valium. The black moth that slumbered in her heart had risen from the embers & unfurled its ugly wings again; the pain unbearable.

Present Day

As the scalpel slices into John Doe’s flesh, an icy blast of salty air whips the pathologist’s startled face & he hears the petrified screams of a drowning man.

A week later, horrified local fishermen discover a badly decomposed head and urn in their nets. The injuries suggest the victim was dragged under a boat. The urn contains waterlogged ashes and a disintegrating envelope.

And so the sea continues her onward journey, sometimes turbulent, sometimes calm but surely as the tide rises & falls, ashes will be scattered & footprints left on the sand.



The bonfire is his temple, and the abode of ghosts and evil spirits his home

The bewitched vermillion sun scorches
The skulls of sacrificial virgins
Which hang on chiselled spears
Attached to wooden stakes
Still warm from the satanic pyre
As sadhus bathe in their ashes

Beside a pile of human heads
With flowing ebony hair
Matted with blood
A warm, crimson blade glistens
Fresh from the slaughter

Bowls and jewellery are carved
From human bones
Skin and entrails boiled
In a filthy, blood stained cauldron
Destined for magik potions

Turmeric is smeared on
Fevered mahogany brows
Whilst holy men high
On alcohol and marijuana
Meditate to reach enlightenment
Around the macabre bonfire

They sit naked atop cadavers
Wild, dreadlocked hair
Hangs down their lean backs
Like a mass of knotted cobras
The putrid stench of death
Laced with the sweet aroma
Of Jasmine and marigold
Cloys the fearful breeze

When the tuberose dusk falls
Tortured souls from the spirit world
With frozen, contorted faces
Hover on the perimeter of the abyss

A family of monkeys
Playing amongst
Crumbling tombstones
Are darted with poison arrows
Before being skinned alive

Human and animal flesh is devoured
By the skeletal sadhus
Washed down with human effluent
Their feast shared
With a pack of starving pye dogs

The skins are tied to the branches
Of the graveyard’s mystic banyan tree
Whose roots are said to be the entrance to Hades
Guarded by a monstrous immortal naga

A vat of warm virgin blood mixed with milk is
Placed at a hole by the trunk
For the vaporous blood thirsty creature
Who will slither up from the earth’s bowels
In the smoke filled darkness
To consume his nightly offering

Virgin skulls used as candle holders
Are lit and placed in a circle
Around the sacred tree
The saffron moon shivers

The mystic tribe summon the dead
Prostrated before grotesque deities
Smeared with virginal blood
Garlanded with lilies
Chanting surreal demonic poetry

The serpent rears her head
Tongue flickering manically
As hellish flames leap high
Into the midnight sky

As dawn breaks
Vultures dine
On grisly remains

Bloated corpses float
On the toxic river
Choked with industrial
And human waste
While temple worshippers
Light incense and pray
For the sweet, pure rains
When polluted souls will be cleansed
And crimson stains washed away.

Copyright © 2016 Anne D Morgan

This poem is inspired by the Aghori monks.  They are a Hindu sect known predominantly for their taboo practices such as the ritual cannibalism of the dead

Footprints in the sand

Present day – St Ives

Flies buzzed round the decomposing, bloated corpse as seagulls circled overhead like vultures. It was a sweltering summer’s morning in early August. An ethereal figure, that of a young man hovered nearby as the sun scorched his empty eye sockets. In life, his eyes were piercing sapphire blue and broke hearts.

His mangled torso entwined in seaweed had been found by a young couple walking their dog just after dawn, washed up on Peregrine* beach.

As the body was driven away, three more shadowy figures, that of a middle aged man and woman and a young woman in her early 20s joined the young man and floated down the beach towards the sea.

Steadying his hand, knife poised, the young rookie pathologist sliced into the cold, sandy flesh of the unidentified cadaver.

A week earlier

The fisherman’s tavern tucked away in St Jude’s Bay* was getting busy when James arrived mid-afternoon after driving down from London with his mother’s ashes to scatter in the sea. When his father had died they had scattered his ashes there too. The family had a holiday home in St Ives and James recalled the happy summers of his childhood. It was also where his parents had first met. Now they were both gone. His mother’s funeral had only taken place two days ago and his eyes were still red raw. He had barely slept since her death two weeks ago. She had taken an overdose and was found by her housekeeper in the bath the following morning. Beside the bath was an envelope containing a letter.

The shaky writing looked like a spider with its legs dipped in ink had scurried across the page and some of it was illegible. Nevertheless, James got the gist and read the contents in horror and in total disbelief.

A month earlier, London’s notorious black cab killer had been murdered in his hospital bed while on remand. In her final letter, his mother had confessed to the killing.

Distraught, James sunk several more whiskeys and as the tide was coming in headed rather unsteadily down to the beach.

Eight months earlier

It was a few weeks before Christmas and James’s sister Saskia had just stumbled out of a club onto the greasy pavement. It was the early hours of the morning and the streets were more or less empty. It was pelting down and Saskia was tired and drunk. In the distance she saw a black cab slowly approaching and stumbled towards it waving her arms.

The next day her mutilated remains had been found dumped in bin liners by the River Thames, near Embankment. She had been raped, strangled, stabbed & butchered. Her killer, a middle aged black cab driver with a hatred for young blonde women had struck again. Saskia was his third victim. Shortly afterwards he was arrested after his forth potential victim, an off duty police officer, fought back.

Saskia’s mother, Jenny, was totally devastated. The day she received the news was only a few days after the fifth anniversary of her husband’s death. The notorious gangster Johnny Mack had been found shot on wasteland in Essex a few days short of his 50th birthday. His killer had never been caught but she vowed that she would get justice for Saskia. When she buried her daughter the day before Christmas Eve she vowed that she would make sure the monster who had taken her baby away from her would go to hell. A life for a life.

One month earlier

And so the day arrived. Thanks to an anonymous tip off on Twitter, Jenny knew which hospital Jonathan Hardy, her daughter’s killer, had been admitted to following his attempted murder whilst on remand. He had been cut up pretty badly with a razor blade which had narrowly missed a carotid artery. As he had lost a significant amount of blood he had been placed in HDU so that he could be closely monitored.

Slipping into her nurse’s uniform, carefully pulling on a long brunette wig over her short blonde bob and attaching her fake identify badge, she slipped into the night. She had been a nurse in a previous life so was comfortable around hospitals and could easily blend in. All she had to do was get past the prison guard stationed outside his room, put the pillow over his head and it would all be over.

Returning to her flat, Jenny poured herself a large vodka and began writing a letter to her blue eyed boy. Since her daughter’s death, the black moth had unfurled its wings again and hope had fled. She had been there several times before but this time she no longer had the energy left to fight back. Swallowing a handful of Valium, washed down with the rest of the vodka, she ran herself a bath. As she slipped into unconsciousness, she saw her daughter surrounded by bright light holding out her hand. As she took her last breath, Jenny grabbed it.

When the housekeeper discovered Jenny’s body the next morning, she noticed a tiny white feather clutched in her hand.

One week later

A couple of miles along the shore from where the unidentified corpse was found, fishermen were reported to have pulled out a rusty urn from their fishing nets. As one of the fishermen opened the urn he described feeling an icy cold blast of air whip his face and the petrified screams of a drowning man.

Inside they discovered a disintegrating, waterlogged green tinged envelope. However, it was still quite well preserved considering it had been in the water so long. What appeared to be the letter ‘J’ was handwritten in black ink on the front.

And so the sea continues her onward journey, sometimes turbulent, sometimes calm but as surly as the tide goes out ashes will be scattered and footprints left on the sand.
*fictitious places

Copyright © 2016 Anne D Morgan