I want to do something.

On the path to master a decent degree in any language, there is always at least one technique we like the most. I remember when I used to fill my notebooks with hatred encrypted in Finnish early in the morning in maths back in high school. Google Translate was my best friend when it came this. I learnt a lot of vocabulary, and wrote paragraphs which I later was able to revise with the aid of native Finnish speakers.

Since then, I have come with many excuses to put aside the development of any language, even ignoring the very thing which proved to be helpful. So, I will write in those languages I choose to bring to life even if I make mistakes. It will help me polish them, and with time, I may even feel inspired enough to write more and more in foreign languages.

Feather feet tickle the blackened reflection of forgotten regions.

The fathomless mirror weeps with tears of oblivion

as the mystic voice of some divine creature denudes with tender touch

the skin seared in the truce of sweet perdition.

Silken vocals wrought from the salt of reasonless reason

declare war against the bearer of gentle breeze and warmth of spring

that if the bosom dare be tranquil still,

thorns of nightshade and opium dreams will unearth the graves of youth-besotted shards

beclothed by the deranged pure minds of the sheltering lamps

in a world of dark delight.

The fair cat in a suit of velvet blue looked with disgust at the raindrops trickling down the roof at the entrance of the old cabaret.

Tonight, like the previous night, and countless others lost in time, Lord Kamsim Mira had performed before an audience of dispirited souls.

The prominent feline had sung for so long that he, too, had nothing but emptiness in his once wild heart. The cold starless sky was the extension of his withered smile. Each time, he greeted it with the air of resignation of a man who ignites a fight just to surrender and die. This was his drill – the endless gloom of post performance nights, when the void that corroded him came alive and brought about the gall of an immortal with little regard for life.

Tonight, the minstrel of the drunk and the swine, still cursed and breathed in the fumes of his earthly prison; however, the cat was not of his reason.

Overtaken by the desire to escape his malediction, Lord Kamsim Mira closed his eyes and jumped into the streets in a warcry.

To his discontentedness, no carriage, and no murdeous shadow deigned to relieve him from existence. Instead, sundry legs and eyes filled his vision and cornered him behind a building of stone at the other side of the street he had crossed.

“You are one naughty cat”, said the mist who kept him from harm.

“Unhand me!” cried the feline, yet the oily musty stench of that fog saviour permeated through his nose and claimed abode in the residence of his lungs.

Soon enough, the gracious cat laid unconscious upon the hardened ground — tongue hanging to the side, tensed lines of furry brow slowly yielding to the sphere of dark.

Image by Jonny Lindner from Pixabay

In my mind, I simply behave as I like when I please.

In your head, I am the summary and reminder of the tears you’ve shed and the anxiety you’ve given yourself into.

It’s not my intention to aggravate your pain, and I often come to the conclusion that I innately know how to reflect your inner world to force you to face the shades of your dead.

Not for a moment fool yourself with the thought that your words or deeds can affect me. Only you will suffer the whole price for your nescience and your insolence.

Yelling, taking offense, won’t make your turmoil go away. The more you resist, the more the themes that tint the walls of your consciousness will be projected onto your surroundings.

You will see me and others enact your fears and your blockages until you decide to convert them and use them to propel you toward the next stage of personal evolution.

Whatever you do, I will observe impervious.

You will display your most child-like behaviour when I break down to you your mental processes as you’ll feel denuded before the imposing truth with no way to retaliate against it.

You think your age validates your comportment.

Before my eyes, you are but a snot of life who was never taught to rise above the detrimental patterns of the sleeping rusty ones.

For once, ever since you were birthed into this world of lies, ponder upon the reasons behind your impulses, and stop hiding from your internal problems.

Do yourself a favour.

Know yourself before you engender a monstrosity you will later regret.

Thus, Alethea growled,

“In slithered the sad artist with manner of reverie.

She danced ’round the pyre that calcinated the enemy,

and drank from my veins until she was sated.

Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay

Unholy hands elevated me beyond the flesh

to confine me to the house of infamous memories.

I wished to sleep, but discarnate voices of the past conjured up my wildness;

thus, I confronted them – broke their necks and ate their eyes to absorb their power.

Not too long after in this abode of correspondence,

a rapping at my door broke the stillness of my conscience.

“Go away!” I shouted in turmoil – my knees upon the floor, my heartbeats sundry.

I saw the hand that knocked on as no wall dared to shield me.

I saw the hand that knocked on even when the entrance was unopened.

“Let me in!” the ghoulish tongue demanded.

I sure held onto my faculties and beheld the blind man bearing crotches;

his grime was of a flower, his eyes a thousand thunders.

“Would you let me in?” said the cripple in a wonder

when I stood to analyse his intimate comportment.

A thought, a desire of abandonment tempted me to bed in a glorious bolting.

“Leave him there!” I heard as the ghost of Lethe perched

upon the threshold of accomplishment.

“Imbibe from the chalice of the dead and string my song in the nest of men.”

“Accurst!” I pined and pained. “Thy touch is of a bane!”

Forthwith I removed the first lock, allowing in the head of bleeding torment.

Unseeing as the man was, he managed to find my gaze and sigh.

The being vanished into thin air,

and darkness spread her mantle of primeval hearth.

I turnt on my heels – cold and aghast – just to find a woman akin to the man,

yet greasy and pregnant as she gave me a side smile.

“How did you get in?” blurted I. “Tell it to me, or I will kill you otherwise!”

“Remember the path beyond the Nightmare White?”

The woman cut all distance betwixt us and touched my hands.

Her fetid curls, her mouth swamp-like, burnt my insides

and turnt my semblance into a sour mask;

albeit enthralled I was by her shining azure eyes.

“You can’t unlearn a lesson learnt.

I know your happiness.

It’s all carved in where reversed dreamers dare not tread.”

Had I looked elsewhere but the woman’s eyes,

I would have seen the ungodly beast extract the life out of me.

Her grey hands gripped my neck, and I desperately sought calmness.

In those disturbed blue eyes, love danced in swirls of hand forlorn.

Hatred – a merciful cure for a heart whose sun burnt for reasons unknown.

Caged eternities – impulses of a sojourn gone too long –

laced vivid tales of a time that is no more.

Moved by sorrow once forgot, my countenance softened,

yet the daemoness brought her wrath further for my insolence – my boldness.

“Forgive me!” I stammered.

For the first time, surprise visited the woman’s visage;

consequently, I took advantage of such fleeting frailty

to turn my hands into claws –

to rip her head off and devour her eyes along with her unborn.

Thus, the last seal broke.

“What have I done!” I wept –

ebony tears abolishing the masters of the spider-web.

“My life!

Seed from the womb of another mother!

Scorn me not; for I can’t retaliate against this hunger.

Resurrect, my love – my longing!

What must I do to release thee from the arms of non-becoming?”

Image by JL G from Pixabay

From the ashes of past

’till the shadow hereafter,

the wrath of my soul shall breathe you terror.

I will laugh and conjure the fire of the nameless stars

as I relish your agony and frolic in this crown of tar.

You let me down, little bird of the sky —

bound me to a life in silence.

You stringed my limbs as far as it could have lasted.

There’s nowhere to go in this world forlorn

for one who takes not the spear of divine role.

Caged in your own disaster,

you will yearn for my poison dagger.

The winds will deny your voice and swallow your words

as penitence for your narrow-mindness.

Give me your tears, Asinine of Unsuited Matters!

I shall drink the nectar transmuted in the entrails of your delightful mother,

and free the world as I drag you crestfallen.

Image by cocoparisienne from Pixabay

In a summer land, a kingdom of ice stands upright.

The sun perishes before the stroke which forces masses into stone.

The walls of a neutral core may break alone to give way

to grey rocky protrusions of painless pain,

and defy the natural order to command saline rain.

The shards are alive.

They contain the secrets long lost to men,

yet bane their gist exudes to the soul whose midst is uncouth and strained.

The fiend of the flat nourishment baits with the hand of flatter aliment.

The blob abhors that which translates to growth and refinement,

yet let abhorrence be the might of their supine power.

Down come the storm of glacial fire!

Wash our hands and lend us the eye of the deeper waters.

The shards breathe from borrowed life,

their iridescence stolen from the sweet guitar

that accompanies my cries every night.

“Sí se puede”, I often heard. A phrase bearing the meaning of a possible endeavour, that it is possible to carry on and be victorious against the enemy.

Image Not By Alyona

“¡Sí se puede!”

I wondered what in soothe was possible, and then I said to myself, “It is possible to cry, to scream, and to die”.

Ruins will engage the eye with woe and nostalgia as the many pretty murals lauding comunism and the spooned psychological combat against an invisible adversary will display where all the care has been bent to.

Mother Nature stands as an entity uncorrupt. With semblance still virginal and fertile, she screams of potential; still her hand is vacant and devoid of pleasure.

Nature blossoms astoundingly vivacious as population is abased with everyday effort. But worry not, for it is possible. It is possible to be beaten and squeezed until the shores of the afterlife are reached. The war has already a victor in its own world of make-believe.

Image by Alyona
Image by baetzpetra from Pixabay

Easy it is to romanticise the land for her magnificent groves and mountains, for her promoted beaches. Only the inhabitants of this island reversed in time will reveal the truth that breath-taking pictures and the flora and fauna hide.

I have heard misery-conscious mouths avow that Cuba is delightful. Thus I wonder Do you find pleasure in starving? In being deprived of the basic untainted liquid that sustains life? If you enjoy the existing conditions so much, why don’t you stay and carouse until you putrify? Do you suffer from amnesia that when you depart you forget the sweat and the tears of the countrymen, or are you the kind to portray a deceptive reality to the ignorant eye? If that is so, I damn you to retrace your steps and recognise that common life takes after the appearance of a dump that overflows.

Withal dare say I that Cuba is an enjoyable land, beheld from the distance through some foreign godhead’s eye. Majestic in nature, death in the eye. Majestic in nature, oppression in the human heart.

With a raging sword poised to slice, I still wish to add that all of this I cannot chastise. Hard times forge individuals of a lofty stock. Warriors stand, strength surmounts all obstacles. People live mostly through what pertains to their personal and higher growth.

I wondered anew what was possible, and to myself I then said, “The magnitude of reality is felt through personal perception. It is all mental, and the learning process is eternal”.

Image by David Mark from Pixabay

Hast thou ever wondered

the reason behind thy restless heart?

Something to ease the uneasiness

that conquers thy nights?

That which thou art able not to speak of,

for it wickedly hides somewhere in thy mind and eats thee alive?

It is inexorable torture!

An alleged bon that brings about corruption!

It is an impious knight of hollow eyes

who rides and dances upon a putrid carriage disguised in ecstasy

on the imparting of unavailing and treacherous promises.

Poor is he who yieldeth to his honey-like words!

Condemned is he who hath relished the kiss of such an atrocious Lord!

In my centuries of life,

his is a war to wage day and night.

Alas! Unwise I was.

He took me by surprise and forsook me behind god’s back.

~*~

At midnight, innocent eyes were open wide.

Moonlight brought about the mysteries fearful eyes denied.

“Look there!” cried the little old girl in dread.

A quiet ancient friend knelt by the corner at the feet of the bed.

He did not look at her in the eye,

yet she felt the weight of his coal-black sight.

But this world to its own laws.

Conveniently most inconvenient,

he vanished and never came back.

Ask Augustus what he did,

and tell it to me under the willow tree

that I may undo what she could not halt

before the gates of eternity closed.

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

Virtue in shadows lies

with a will that bleeds to stand.

Come to the riverbank.

Shed your hopes and dreams.

Away they’ll be carried by the streams.

Bow ‘fore the daemon

and kiss the unholy hand.

Sing of song of a million sins

and unleash the Abyss within.

Assaulted from the streams of craftily void-bedighted melancholy, a common man most strange set my insides on fire. The urge to walk away rivalled me at first, yet I won once I told myself that his lips I would claim.

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

The hissings of deflection echoed as the deviant moon weaved tales in my head.

“Danger!” they said. “Intoxication and dread!”

Some may argue that temptation had a role in this play, yet I say it was curiosity that drove me past the edge.

I wished to unravel the potential held in his spring-like cage.

I rose from the Underworld as a hunter for the prey.

Choirs of roses and chrysanthemums beclothed me as I danced above the frozen waters and stiff air.

The common man still strange reveled in the image of my luminous threads, bewitched by the songs that my soul firmly did reflect.

But fascination does not guarantee comprehension in a person.

To my picture, he cast his own ever disregarding with stupendous affright and unwavering creed the sinister light with whom he did speak.

As heartening and liberating as the strings of my instrument sounded, the essence of the message dissolved before the gates of his own encagement.

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

“You are my call and vocation”, he used to say, “but your words make and make no sense”.

In his narrow perception, my vision was untamed a will o the wisp most stubborn waiting for ground to lay and rest.

I foretold forthcoming pain. This man this walking flame breathed dead in his green meadow’s weight.

As captivated as I was, my judgement held onto me tight. Thus, in an April night, a full moon shone bright and to her I gave my woes and sang:

“If you must depart from me, leave.

If that is so, then let me go.

Just remember I was genuine”.

The saline ocean of my eyes poured to purify my being as indifference planted her seed in my soil of sleen.

May trailed in nonchallantly its rains a remainder of what I gave away as the common man ever strange ran away when my mind he could not overtake.

In my own unconcern, a part of me was not at rest. Detachment and the disrespect of a child most strange waged war within myself in the search of a balance that seemed too far away.

I embarked in the endeavour to slay the raging beast of my inlands, and with a chalice at hand, I sang anew at midnight.

Cardinal fire with earthly stare

saw a little flower and lost his head.

Saw the Abyss right through her eyes,

but could not hold the maelstrom inside.

~*~

Walking flame that burnt so bright,

met with Darkness, drowned himself in the tarry waters of the depths.

The night was witness to their descent,

and the daemoness sang in hazel duet:

“I let you go.

I let you go.

Despite it all, I let you go.

Go find yourself.

Go find your peace.

Clearly – visibly – my thorns are too rough for your skin”.

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

By lordly will, peace spread her tentacles and embraced me. Submerged in perfect apathy, I foresaw the man’s return.

With an injured head and grasping onto his last hope, he came to me for the nourishing of the spirit and the soul. In his exhausted vessel, he rose and wept before me that I may forgive his transgression.

“Fool!” he said, “I am a fool beyond consideration!”

“A fool indeed,” said I, “but I will look past this indignation”.

Despite my impartiality toward the matter, I chose to stay and see the direction of the case. In cold desire, I observed and learnt human behaviour. And, as habits of the lost go, this man most strange this walking flame ran away again when truth proved too strong for him to take.

Now, I had seen the cycle ’till the end. I returnt to my abode laughter in my core and erased all the trails that may lead to my door were the irresolute infant in a man’s shadow to return with promises that he cannot hold.

Image by Prawny from Pixabay