One early morning of December, I was plunged into the depths of my own abyss. I poured the heaviness into paper, and it developed into an image.

Image by Richard Mcall from Pixabay

I saw the end from the corner of the eye, hosted by November sky.

In the arms of rain, he imbibed beauty and commanded pain with the might of a titan ravenous for revenge.

“Mistress”, his lips parted solemnly in speech, “close my eyes and let be away from life. In this, the chilly embrace of thine, unbound me of bounds lest I rise in battle-cry and warn the heart against the Nightmare White.

“Thou hast been brave, gracious one”, said I, caressing still his pale demise, head betwixt palms, “but releasing you forebodes the rage of the stars. I know your voice, I know your eyes. Return to the pits of reversed night and be clad in tenderness lest you reign upright above the swine.

“Will I know your voice? Will I know your eyes?” wept the knight in manners most gaunt.

“I’ll be the breeze that passes by. Find me in swirls of heartache warm printed in the book of life, buried deep in oceans of time.”

It was said that sparkling eyes were but tales of a delirious past.

His eyes were the early autumn kissed mossy rocks at the bottom of a crystalline rivulet whose stream carried the will into the deep, where the sun seldom shone, yet the core burnt with an ancient glow.

Her eyes, withered by loss, peeked into the water and turnt to liquid gold —a sun reborn amongst the fathomless and the numb.

“Burn, precious heart, for thou wert born to shine!” they sang in hazel duet, bodies entwined. “We’ll visit the sacred fire upon the bleak of the land; we’ll remind of the empires buried in the eternal mind!”

It was said that sparkling eyes were but tales of yore, weaved by sicklings who knew not life’s cruelty galore, yet there they were — defying the fate uttered that many a time had tainted the world.

Oft have I found myself

peering through the mists of fleshy conceptions,

and oft have I beheld the reversed crevices

that give form and commensurate with the essence

of ill-begotten ancestry and tomb-forged embrace

to be kept in mausoleums that insidiously walk with promises most innocuous.

Neophyte waters infirmly flow on gravel rivers and poison strokes,

helplessly subject to the beast that rides them

from the mast of the softly strong vehicle of the soul upon this world.

(I was once given a project. I could either write a prelude or an epilogue for Kate Chopin’s “The Story of an Hour”. I chose the latter).

Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay

“Free! Body and soul free,” the jeering shadow raised her hands of smokeless fire and clapped, “Pathetic” as infant whimpers foreign to wedlock echoed.

“Please, grant me surcease!” Louise knelt in plea, disregarding the sobbing image of her spawn. “Have I not suffered enough?”

Darkness descended from her high throne more somber than wont, hissing putrescence with scorn, “You are rather keen on leaving your child alone.”

Louise awoke in a sharp cry; her nails clawed onto her chest. Her husband sprang to her side, yet the femina kicked his head and ran kitchenwise. Josephine, who saw her hurry with frenzy eyes, almost gave into a panic aghast whilst Richards froze and lost his balance at once.

Hours transpired ere the denizens of the flesh stepped into the cookery, leaving stupefaction behind. Louise was far from sight, and the house was the embodiment of silence in an eldritch midnight.

“Surely, she will come back,” Mr. Mallard tensely smiled, “or young Elijah will die.”

Mrs. Mallard joined supper with a can of glue and a doll in hand. “Say, Josephine, do I make myself ill or do I rejoice by surreptitious deliverance?”

Josephine was frightened by what laid beneath her kin’s fathomless eyes. Meeting her sister with no more than an answerless mouth and a perturbed glance drove Louise to plunge the doll in the can; Josephine gasped for air and died.

“Murdering a child is a threat of the lowest kind,” spat the revenant at her spouse. Mr. Mallard rubified as though a bull in fight, burying a kitchen knife through Richards’ neck ere confronting his wife. Louise pulled her partner’s clay figurine from under her dress and broke his leg to chant, “My darkest side, accept my tormentor as sacrifice; deliver me from this sorrowful plight!”

Darkness forthwith took command, and two-way Louise tore her husband apart with her bare hands as she freely laughed.

Image by Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay

Past the verge of insanity,

an angel wept for surcease.

Morning never came,

and he drowned in grief;

for afterlife has forsaken him,

and now he shall meet no peace.

In the cage of his mind, torments of the night,

his nightmares shall not pass.

“O angel, thou beholdest but through stained glass!”

cried the viper who, enthralled, hissed his lullaby.

“Thy crown of thorns bestoweth the secrets of the ancient ones,

but alas! Thy tears pervade and thou shunnest them like bane,

hoping that they be carried away like mud under the rain.

Thou, heavenly being, deserveth not the wings

for which many have died to reach!

If thou deemest thyself so frail,

bleed into this vial, surrendering thy power to my being hollow.”

Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay

Oh, Melancholia!

How thou comest still at night

to stir the memories of a long-forgotten path.

Oh, Melancholia!

How gracious thine hand!

How coarse the beauty of thine eyes!

Pity not this soul of yore.

 Take me to the depths beyond;

for I am darkness, blood, and core of such archaic shore

the elders pronounced home.

Oh, Melancholia!

Thy pardon I desire not.

Come to embrace me under the raven light of March

where crimson flow embosometh the recondite’s keen claws,

where the daemon hath clenched his jaw.

Oh, Melancholia!

Where hast thou gone?

The tears refuse to last,

 and hollow-insenced I bear the scars of this arid, vile land.

Here, I am left to breathe the poison in my veins.

Gods tremble aghast, for clemensy hath flown away

unleashing hell for me to take.

My impurities she summoned forth

without giving thought much,

or giving ear to such a foolish matter I could attend alone.

The very thought of this place is enough to make my blood boil.



‘Tis but an insult to all of those who, in flames, their hearts burn –

stone-cold killer whose hunger only soars.

O, but it shall die ere dawn

in the crimson wings of odium

where the lost are awake and longing for home.

It shall dim by the sweet darkness of the ancient ones

who are weary at bone and core,

or rather by the poison we breathe that, away, will not go.

We are dead!

Dead and gone!

For even though we breathe,

nothing we are but putrid corpse.

And here I lie,

and here I cry,

and here I laugh.

Soon there shall be nothing left but the foul memory

that so feeble shall become.

The universe shall swallow it

and refuse to talk for eternities to come.

I charge thee!

Release me or I will rip thy core with the most excruciating touch!

I am the ripper who imbibeth from thy strength, enthralled.

Thy wrath is invigorating and darling like a newborn in cradle.

Tell me, dear,

why his glow dost thou shadow?

Thou wert free and wild, o pretty child.

These Cimmerian thoughts,

kings of bloodfest that rejoice in sorrowed moan,

writhe in pain to sing a song.

Let the moon be witness of our deranged status,

and surrender thyself to my being hollow.

Image by Dimitris Vetsikas from Pixabay

This forced trip bestowed unto me something I much required. I remembered compassion. I remembered patience. I told my brother in the essence of Casiano so on the way to the airport during the hours of the early morning. The entity admitted quietly that I had witnessed human emotion. This stone heart of mine had been transmuted during those thirteen days post our troubled beloved’s death. I bonded with children and met a marvellous lady with whom I held conversations of the like I, myself, and otherwise had been deprived of for a long time as genuity is a pillar to her essence, and she was my joy within the turmoil of my caged kismen. (Thank you, Isleidys).

Upon stepping on Cuban soil, I felt myself transforming. Somehow I did not fully register my return to the land which birthed me; a rush, a growing restlessness possessed me as I walked to the aduana. In this misplacement, I was anew connected. I took this voyage as a challenge for self-improvement, and I took Urizen with me.

I adapted to the dealing of the old ways quickly. By the end, I knew once more how it feels to be empathetic. I opened myself to the lives of my human bloodline, and as a consequence, I was more human myself.

Departure came by the hand of uneasiness. It was time to leave my loved ones behind again. I boarded the plane, and became disgusted with all again. The essence of my surroundings, the shallowness, the immaturity stripped me of the warmth recalled.

Waiting in line after my relative’s documents could not be processed by the automatic machine, I saw people as cattle sheep. The picture of a hoard formed easily in my mind. I detested them. They were the living dead, walking still to another death. Thereafter, I listened to a mother talk to her child, and how the child so beautifully and reasonably answered her. I was charmed to be made witness so soon to an eloquent and heartful interaction. I smiled internally as I felt myself rising from the swallowing mouth of reversed light. Mother and child were a reminder of the recalled connection, and I grew more tolerant. I felt gratitude and moved along in line.

Image by Michael Knoll from Pixabay

Kaheri, although my blood, I marvel at all she needs to discover. This young woman is in pain, and she knows not how to use it or overcome it. She will not aid the improvement of her condition consciously, for she is far too lost in the crevices of reversed light and doctrine. Kaheri is young, in both body and soul. She may portray a harsh and loud exterior, but such assertion only hides the real her. Kaheri of my bloodline has still many tears to shed. This crude expression of a being in a suit of flesh mourns still her mother’s death, a bleeding and poisoned wound far too recent. Kaheri, the elder, is perturbed, and with a reason.

I became cognizant one afternoon, a considerable amount of days or weeks before the news of the deceased. I sat at the table as I consumed my lunch when I heard through a phone call that the woman who birthed Kaheri would have to undergo surgery. I neither saw nor felt but knew with a certain conviction about the impending earthly departure. I knew that neither Kaheri nor we would ever embrace our troubled beloved sick as a fellow human being as the mortal repose would not have mercy on her.

According to what we gathered, specially after the sudden and forced trip to Cuba, our troubled beloved felt her strength waning, but never did she speak of the severity of her unwellness. She was taken to the hospital where she was cut open at the say of a doctor for the extraction of her vesicle without running tests to verify the source of the soon to be dead’s malady. In sooth, Kaheri’s mother had, for a long time, incubated Hepatitis B which was passed onto her by her idiotic husband who failed to follow his check-ups to observe and treat the condition and even ever mention that he was a bearer of the virus.

The removal of our troubled beloved sick’s vesicle was undoubtably unnecessary. This reckless operation only weakened her immune system and vampirised her life. Due to a negligence, Kaheri is now orphan of mother —a morose cup weeping upon a bleak tomb, demanding that her life giver answer why she left when her child needed her most. Due to a negligence, we wet our cheeks with salted grief as there was still a spark of life in the dead’s eyes.

Affected by the bereavement of someone who loved me strong and kissed my eyelids at any chance she had, I am also one to comprehend that the dead are only dead in flesh, placed on a different plane of existence that humans carelessly disregard out of fear or ignorance. People may concern themselves with the condition of a fellow being, but they, we, from our innermost, only grieve out of a selfish sentiment. We desire what is lost when it is too late to retrieve it. We will remember our troubled beloved, but one must not journey through life stirring the bile of suffering. The deceased should be celebrated instead of hauled down by sorrow. I, for once, decided to remember the newly departed with a smile as it is imperative to practice the making of wonders blossoming out of gloom. Kaheri, on the other hand, has a harder path, wandering the youth-besotted labyrinths of her mind as she learns to heal and find inner peace. The old child has been taught the ways of detriment. She, like many, is unable to grasp beyond the thresholds of physicality. Untrained in much that is even herself, Kaheri must voyage her being to know how to will a change within herself with the mere intention of provoking one. One can only observe and offer a hand if she truly desires it.