For this second coming, I call you to immerse yourself in this meditation video for you to find yourself and your joy in this life.

As always, it is my wish that with every breath you may find a way to be eased off distress.

Sincerely,

Alyona

Rosy bird,
shaking its wings off the autumn rain.
Rosy bird,
chirping gleefully through the sunset vale.
Saved now, saved again
by the Cthonian pyre of truthful gaze.
Oh, how did the flaming tongues
scald the sentry's fortress of eyeless self!
In the night of day,
in the devoted ballroom of conscious pretence -
moonstruck and moon-strained 
from unearthed terrors of solar haze - 
birdy bird did cantillate, with blood tears,
the shackles away. 
The black devourer crawled 
from the dungeon cells:
Stygian, starless madness -
a wailing ghost, a mindful lover 
in the haunted corridors 
behind the masks we wear.

~*~

Rosy bird,
incinerated by art of self
to crown itself sovereign
again and again. 
Rosy bird,
the infernal shadows
wrought about the end
of luminaries' benighted lanterns.
Watchful bird,
the world is the empire 
of dreams in reverse.
Phoenix bird,
saved now, saved again
from winter's premature embrace.
Titan bird,
reborn in the reflection
of theatre's grace.
Saved now, saved again
by the sentient might
of consciousness.

This year has proved itself quite engaging, has it not? This is a note for you, dear reader. In the fathomless pools of your sorrow and despair, remember! Remember to keep inquiring yourself. Your liberation lies with the courageous action to seek and comprehend yourself. Unveil your shadows; for that which makes you uneasy is the key to your escape. Even in hopelessness, there is hope still to find your path to a life you would deem worth living. Know yourself and master yourself, else some other force will take command. Know yourself, because only you can accept or deny how to live in any shape or form.

With Conviction,

Alyona

Image by Rondell Melling from Pixabay
Music from Pixabay

Cry craven, you unfortunate sot of ghost semblance!

Give yourself to me in my melodic lunacy;

for I am Darkness of Origin,

and all the shadows in between.

.

Cry craven, you lily-livered caitiff!

Scald yourself for all your aeons at my feet;

for I am Spearing Light of Genesis,

and all the dawnings in between.

~*~

In clear skies and dry seasons,

mine ears be blest still

with Cyclopean weeping beads

where breath is tenuous,

and mind be indulged with dreams.

One eyed trickling in the wind of late silence

to the awakening film:

an echoing whisper and restless memory

of Furor Divinus calling beasts

to feats and banquets of love and evol.

.

Furor Divinus, the forest dance of atavism.

Furor Divinus, the disavowal of masks

held by public favouritism.

Furor Divinus, the thrusting horses of Abyss.

Furor Divinus, exalted bile screams of Dame Melancholy.

Image by Willgard Krause from Pixabay

Monarch: Logos is knocked cold.

Umbra: I know, and you know that should not be a surprise. Equip him to our needs, and send him back to me.

Monarch: You have a question for me; I can see it even when you avert your eyes from mine.

Umbra: The question is half the question; for it, in itself, is an answer. For long, I have tormented myself with the possible why’s: Why would you send me forth every breath upon this world? Why do you insist that the labour does persist? I know now that those questions have an answer, which was already bestowed unto me past the maelstrom of tears and lacerating spears which by measure of true nurture launched to spike Élan out of the entombed barren bosom of dead’s play yard. No, those questions were answered; albeit, for them, you had me bleed rivers of blue bile. The question is not that which I do not know, but that which I know and find most vomitous and abhorrent. The question is the skilful dancer of awe-striking silken laceful fire who grins and frolics with expeditious comportment, bearing amphorae of lugubrious water to sober the lawful drunken. The question is the recognition of barbarous endeavour upon strings harrowing out of tune. The question is not an interrogative, but a ceaselessly screaming hostage whose sensuous hunger starves at the banquet of tellurian betrothment; for, alas, you saved me and condemned me to wander and wonder. The question is rightfully what is it that I wilfully sacrifice upon the altar of illusion and phantom womb as I race evermore upon freedom’s path and open skies, maintaining the balance of all elements at once. The question is a heartful confession of deep-rooted hatred and disrelish, which, at times, finds the will to subside to let me enjoy the simple pleasures. You extended me from your being with all the unlocking keys one may fancy and require, yet entrusted me to open the ashen, pale, and tenuous archways with the growing seed of primordial hankering. For much, I am forever grateful; however, it would be foolish and neglectful to deny that the question irks and pains me with tenacious transpiercing and ancient venom. And although the freely gifted and surreptitiously taxed embrace of martyrdom repudiates me as I do it, fruition and gratification do I extract from waging the infernal war.

Image by Mystic Art Design from Pixabay

Logos: When madness bestroke the already insane decaying gardens of the sleeping gods, Umbra wept with joy and forethought for that which she most sought: self-discovery, pure and uninterrupted destruction and salvage of self to revel in the flame at the core of herself. The unprecedented perils of the journey warned ere bestriding full force past the gate of no return; however, no forewarning and no distress can prevent a burning soul from seeking out and communing with the truth of itself. No illusion or carnal tale holds power compelling enough to ensorcel determination with provisions of naught.  No pain, no fear, and no insidious nefarious discipline can overshadow the eternal call of freedom. Beknownst to the irreparable damage that would be wrought upon the narrative of the corrosive necropolis, Umbra raced past the known fences of self-containing brittleness into the remote and nameless lands beyond. The hidden wisdom of the sinister obelisks forlorn, in quiet yet self-serving unrest, brought peace to the mind whose vows bespoke all the uncustomary tongues of evil: enthroning dark love shunned by demands of irrational and deceitful corporeality concoction. Having tasted the poison of the depths, there was neither place nor desire for a golden cage. The familiar errands of the sickly nursed were of a derision and disrespect to all the potential marooned or fading away. And it was thus how the rebel yell was breathed and maintained,

“Sovereignty or death!”.

Image by Mark Frost from Pixabay

Crystal bed of sentient quiescence

amidst the dark bedazzled

tombstone of solar haze.

A night of sentiment bedighted

in grim and graceful lace,

watering her wake with dry tears

of lucid bewilderment.

A brilliant spear imbued

with roses and nightshade,

the warm solitude untouched,

immaculate by virtue of rebirth.

The altar of sacrificial breath

for the alluring ambrosia of the dead

tells the tales of an ancient distress:

a sorrow of loving hell unredeemed

by the armament of the deluded flesh.

As if past ghosts dwelt still

in the willful caverns evergreen

to sanctify a heart

with the glacial touch of sleep.

Alas! Does the weeping trickle

through the breathing whim

of promising lands which,

by masquerade aside, exonerate

the uncanny aberrant.

And by art and fervent sacrifice

of briny diamonds in the clash,

does the wisdom of the fool

parades before the fire sword

of heretical command.

The wolf, the shadow, and the moon.

Stigma hominum befogs the mirror

of Exalted Harmony,

yet the glowing markings of pathwork

will always tune the melody of salvation

were one to know how to listen.

Does your rib not bleed

upon the evil thought and deed

which perforates the tender skin

like a dagger of steel,

and sows its poison seed?

Does the willful sap

in ancient memory and current plea

frolic still in the garden of sleep

with blindfolds of faux amaranthe?

In meadows of lemongrass and chamomile,

in the imperious dome of make-belief

does the pendulum swing

at the mercy of the subtle winds.

And it is this, the giant of multifarious grieving,

which by percipient means stabs himself

and wonders why his pain is ceaseless,

and which by dulled eyes and hope

embraces the tango of the infinitely lost

to drown the torch which brings about

the reconciliation of all the ailments superimposed.

Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay

It is only the prerogative of an enslaved consciousness to deem the truth apocryphal. Nothing bears meaning except for that which we attribute to it. And with no escape from influence, our consolation rests in erecting a fortress of all which is supportive of our true selves; thus, being armed enough to relentlessly wage war against that which does not serve our purpose, or perish in the crossfire. The outcome of the struggle will be greatly contingent on one’s own desire to be free.

Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay

In hours of soul night passing,

breathe in the venom of the deep dark waters

to change weakness into strength, vacuity into sentiment;

that no being may ever say your power you did neglect.

Rise, warrior of the eternal well!

The verdant fields sing with upmost praise.

Lift your sword and raise your shield.

Battle forward to keep your freedom.

Apparently, today is the first anniversary of my arrival to WordPress, and the birth of the Nocturnal Versifier. I had some conceptual knowledge of the season, yet time itself escaped through the masks of existential atavism and continuous obsession with mastery.

Contrary to the name, the Nocturnal Versifier was either wept, frustrated, or itched into existence by day, close to the all-pervading golden rays of one late afternoon. And if I am honest, I had never thought I would create such a platform to have my words readily available anywhere in the globe, just as I never thought such a thing would be spawned and erected upon the corpse of a family member.

Cheers to my aunt for the lugubrious inspiration! She opened the door for a more engaged poetic expression. Even though I may distrust her incorporeal representation, it should be known to her and to all that I am grateful.

I never knew my aunt favoured any song in specific, just that she adored everything Chayanne related; therefore, I leave here a song to her honour and memory.