My Darling Mother

A little poem in honour of Remembrance Sunday,  based on a letter from Wilfred Owen to his mother. This was actually supposed to be my sister’s homework but I got a bit carried away when I was ‘helping’ her.   

My darling mother laboured to create a man,

But from this world, an angel will depart, 

Donning a smile, with nerves in perfect order, 

Prepared to rejoice in song with the larks. 

Crimson christens the shoulder blades where wings will form, 

My earthly functions are lost to the mud, 

Shroud me with prayers; in darkness I will ascend, 

Wearing a military cross, crusted with blood. 

By Tyler Turner 


War Child

Welcome to the bomb shelter capital of the world,

Where blood spills from pushchairs and christens carpets,

And where those left behind are the same as the dead,

Where fear, death and siege is what we preach,

And where tombstones and rubble replace our beds.

Our playgrounds are shell-scarred and littered with shrapnel,

Games are limited to hide-and-seek with gunmen,

Books are charred and teddy bears are stuffed full of dust,

History, strength and power can never re-flower,

While our souls lay broken, succumbing to rust.

My mother raises one and gives another to the ground,

Her tears are never permitted the chance to dry,

Flowers stem from the soil where my brother fell,

Adult tears extinguish childhood fears,

While my father’s cry drones on, numbly as a knell.

Rockets pierced through our protective shell of youth,

In peace time, we reclaim a little of what was stolen,

We rejoice with the demons of our childhood,

Fear and hostility gives way to tranquillity,

Though our innocence is dead, drowned in blood.

By Tyler Turner

Throwback Thursday Thrillers- Weeping Angels


The Mausoleum Scriptures’ Throwback Thursday special, written by a tiny ten year old Tyler Turner. Inspired by the weeping angels of Doctor Who and unedited (bar from the odd spelling correction) since it was written circa 2007. 

(Below – the original, unedited framed print with terrible spelling mistakes and misused words.)

12584170_555388204625233_33955982_nWretched souls trapped in bloodless stone.

Empty as a cold, lifeless room.

Emotionless eyes, stiff and still.

Paralysed by none blinking eyes.

Immortal since the dawn of time.

Noticed from every angle.

Gruesome things their powers do.

Absorbing people to the past.

Noiseless, but are heard loud and clear.

Grimy teeth, jagged and fierce.

Elegant, but deadly and scornful.

Lanky robes upon the colour-drained stone.

Sinister as your nightmare creatures.

By Tyler Turner

(Featured image taken from

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Originally written for an English Language AS Level piece, this is the most recently updated version of Tyler Turner’s original short story ‘Pray-Ground‘.

Shane, shrouded in trepidation, drank in the scene around him with reluctant awe. A sea of pews stretched out before his eyes, supporting masses of hollowed out human corpses all praying to a God that could no longer save them.


Proceeding the dawning of the apocalypse, the world had morphed into one titanic battle ground. Humans, now in their minority, had resorted to primitive methods of survival. Men who were once valued by society now scavenged the streets like rodents, and children were mothered by squalor and disease. For many, crime was the new deity; something they turned to in times of doubt and despair.

People were disappearing in their dozens. The authorities didn’t act on the reports as they saw it as fewer…

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