Dincara's Lair

Welcome to Dincaras Lair,

If you have browsed throughout our site, you would have no doubt encountered some poems along the way.

They have been randomly selected from the collections below and published within the site.

This poetry was written for many purposes, the main one being therapy to let the demons out. Other reasons would be of course love. Love for everything and everyone.

Below, is a randomly selected poem from our collations.

Every day we will pick a random collection and add a button to view it in it's entirity. Some have been put into their correct order, others are a shamble.

This is to keep everyone honest, and means you have to come back tomorrow and see what's on the slab.

Today, being the 8th of December 2019

We have chosen




Days of Memory


It's happened once again!
The schizophrenic has lost his mind.
Mysteries, puzzles, riddles,
No answers can he find.

Sometimes sweet,
Sometimes sour,
Personalities change
Hour by hour.

He is intelligent,
And thinks he has E.S.P..
It scares the other personalities,
But at times, he really can see.

Sometimes evil,
Sometimes subdue,
Fights himself,
Then starts anew.

At times, he is alright,
Situated in a large crowd.
But when he is the other,
He becomes fearful when friends are loud.

Sometimes here,
Sometimes not,
In a bed,
Or is he in a cot?

Come and visit him;
Please don't misbehave.
See him, at last, in ease.
Kneel beside his lonely grave.



All the chores are out the way,
Time to relax and have a chat.
Sessim bundles the kids and walks,
To see a friend who lives out back.

The children are placed in a room,
Her friend offers her a cup of coffee.
Sessim offers a tobacco joy in turn,
Then mentions that she'd prefer a cup of tea.

"Did you know Mabels doing George,
And that Marg is doing John?
Not to mention that John is doing George,
I wonder how the Jones's are getting on?"

This meaningless goes on for an eternity,
Filling the void in a time of nothing.
All good comes to an end,
The passing chat fades into the evening.

Paradise Contradiction

Weeping Willow

Where? Of where are you,
My weeping willow tree?
Is this terrain too rough,
To support one as fragile as thee?
This place is good for others,
Who have the same as your needs.
They live on in harmony,
Throwing into the wind their seeds.
Like a carpet of green,
They spread out for miles,
Surrounding a water hole of rock,
A travellers view captivated for miles.
If only you could see it,
My weeping willow tree,
Your tears would dry up,
To feel so full and so free.


Four Crows

For Christ sake, is that all you can carry?
Never being worthy enough these thoughts resonate,
Forever crying out for acceptance or a kind word,
No known fathers love for this child less than eight.

Forever trying to please and fit in with the wrong fit,
Always yearning and craving for the darker side of life.
Never understanding the longing to be a part of the dark,
Light's hold on me is full of pain and unending strife.

In solitude I find peace,
Hidden in the hallowed halls,
The black dog is crawling in,
Four Crows sitting on my walls.
I try not to listen to them,
I try to not visualise them,
I try to not speak ill of them,
Mostly I just try to ignore them.

In the overbearing presence of nothingness projected toward,
One will either adapt and find a way or simply wither and die.
To gain strength out of solitude and climb back into the light,
To escape the recluses' grip one needs help from a soulful guide.

Slow and insidious the journey out takes one step at a time,
One learns to hide themselves behind their riddles and mask.
Carefully treading in fear of reawakening the hurtful passage,
Always trying to please and do of what the others did ask.

The four crows were sitting on the wall facing to the east,
Opened the iron clad doors releasing the black dogs to the west.
We have hidden behind that which we passionately advocate against,
Failed one commandment, the other, time is surely putting to the test.

The dogs are back feeding on the carcass of a wretched soul,
The crows wait patiently to pick out the eyes with no door,
The angels can no longer piece together the fallen and unwhole,
The demons dance because they finally cracked the restrained flaw.

Serenades to a Priceless Princess

Long Time Passing

As time passes from year to year,
It all becomes so crystal clear,
You may think of me as a tall oak,
But I am only so through your love, no joke.

I need you more as the years pass by,
I crave your essence and euphoric high.
In you I see myself and glow,
For without you I am but a shadow.

I am but a poor poet,
Somehow I think you know it,
I simply can’t tell you enough,
I can’t live without your love.

In all honesty I can’t remember how long,
It has been between a serenade or a song,
Please forgive my forgetfulness,
For I do and will love you none-the-less.


Welcome to My Parlour Said the Spider to the Fly

Welcome to my parlour said the spider to the fly; more aptly "Welcome to my poetry said the writer to the reader. For it as much the case for the fly as it is for the reader. If you were able to flick through the pages then maybe you wouldn't become the spiders next meal, but untangle yourself to fly away.

But. To read the poems in depth, not to browse, but to read as if you were in fact the writer. Then. Then you would see a totally different world indeed.

You will be able to feel the raw emotion. You will be able to sense the fears. Visually seeing all the fantasies. Be entangled in the intrigue.

You can listen to, and hear, differing views on politics, the supernatural, and the ultimate question; are we alone?

You can be swept off your feet with the sweet serenades, and yet then, be brought crashing down by the broken hearts. Only to be lifted back up again with a love song. Be it of a person, country, or just the populace in general.

All in all, you would be caught in the spiders web. Not to become a feeble meal. But. But, maybe. To become a spider yourself.

See the person. See the Spider.
An introduction to my collection, many a year ago.

The Garden


A quick brief on the rest of the Division.
There are the Feslii, Spaws, Truth Feslii.
These are the squadrons of Aerial Reconnaissance,
Who assist the Sijsad in their relentless pry.

Then there are the Fael Hoppers,
This squadron won't give up in any fight;
Where there's a will there is a way,
And by the way they pack a good bite.

The Takien are of the Minor Meek,
Small, but able to perform delicate jobs.
Most of these occupations are significant,
Disabling weak hearts leaving only their throbs.

There are others both large and small,
But they have already been broken apart;
To re-group into even more powerful sorties.
The sort of information to break the warmest heart.