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

Burdas luciérnagas sin piel trazaron el camino

de vuelta hacia la morada del ojo empírico

que supervisa todos los lazos del pasado, presente, y futuro por igual.

Es la florescencia –

la consciencia y sensibilidad que se arremolina

inmutable a los chillidos mortales

que elevan pilares de auto-adversidad.

~*~

En la brisa yace el soplo de la sabiduría de la antigüedad.

En la brisa yace la respuesta a toda pregunta en honestidad.

Es la florescencia –

el vínculo sutil de la claridad balsámica

y el colector de la moneda en ligamentos de alquimia.

“¡La libertad es el modo y el camino!”,

arrancó de mi pecho y garganta,

ya que si los sentidos obedecieran solo un deseo,

serían exiliados más allá de los portales de la creatividad.

~*~

Burdas luciérnagas sin piel adornaron la corona de la noche

desde la cuna hasta el cenit,

observando las extrañas formas luminosas en la oscuridad.

Fue la florescencia –

el aliado de cristal que juzgó a los espejos gemelos

con el juicio de no ser paralelos para embarcar

en el viaje a través de las tierras impías de la llama infernal.

Image by Lee_seonghak from Pixabay

Coarse skinless fireflies traced the trail back

to the dwelling of the empyrean eye

which oversees all things past, present, and future alike.

It is the florescence –

the swirling sentiency unswayed by mortal screeches

sustaining pillars of self-adversity.

~*~

In the breeze lies the breath of the wisdom of antiquity.

In the breeze lies the answer to all questions accordingly.

It is the florescence –

the collector of currency in alchemy,

and the subtle link of life and balmy clarity.

“Liberation is the way!”, it tore from my throat and chest,

that if all senses obeyed one wish,

they would be exiled

through the stellar gateways of creativity.

~*~

Coarse skinless fireflies adorned the crown of night

from the cradle to the zenith,

observing the strange luminous shapes in the dark.

It was the florescence –

the crystal ally which deemed

the twin mirrors not parallel

to embark on the sail throgh

the infernal lands.

Forgive the spirit of indolence

which paints the path so hollow.

Lady in white – scolding lips

in the faceless canvas of warm avow.

The silence of the raving moon

immures not the sickness of the incentive charm.

Although the nature of this being is to crawl

through the labyrinths of swelling flagstones,

its serpentine eyes still divine

through the veil of fancy mockery.

Image by Bruno /Germany from Pixabay

Come to feel my heavy heart

as I bleed for you tonight.

Come to soothe my laments

as I stand for you in Light.

I run to you to die,

for there is mercy in your arms.

No love compares to yours, Forgotten Mother of the World!

Come to me, my shrine — my haven, my heart!

Sing me a lullaby,

and guard me with your mind.

Embosom me, Endless Dark!

Kiss me into your essence sublime.

Release me from the chains that keep away the Night.

Softly, you creep into my skin.

The euphoria of an abandoned wish

is the scent you torment me with

as I look into your eyes and see myself

staring back through the mass of tar and intimate regard.

I see you dance upon the carcass of time with merry remarks

ere you whisper in my ears that you’re mine by decree of bloodline.

My spirit hums at the presence of your touch;

still, as I let myself descend through your tunneling caress,

I flee from your embrace whilst my shell tears apart;

for the start of a feverish wont sunrise licks my wounds

to have me bleed and quench the subtle brute athirst

with the passion of a hound.

You yell out my name frenzied and crowned.

I turn my back and feel my tears abound.

With every step I take, away from your domain, I pray for your forgiveness

as I daydream of a time

when you and I will walk side by side.

For now, suffer me to depart.

I will return to you

when the primeval spring meets the secular in art.

The union of scorching hands will be the bridge

for our longing hearts.

You and I will be one

by decree of bloodline and ardor sublime.

Dyad of faithful carnage —

dreadful muse of hidden talents amidst

the sight that blunders and mouth that blabbers!

If you must expunge this hoary heart, do it proudly.

You promise me the grave when dawn arises,

yet you elevate me through the air with laughter in every silence.

Erratic educator,

you’re the ambrosia for which gods rage afire —

an excuse to bedrink the sap of madness

and energise the being with nefarious kindling.

Nurturing vampire!

Illusion of lower handling!

In behest of passion passing,

tell me why you have conceived me

in the foul womb of your parent!

I disdained and disowned you.

I curse and love you.

Dyad of slaughter,

the field is paved with the deeds of your courage.

Have you no shame!

Descend from the aethers to say that you’re sorry!

These tears are the fruit of your dear screech —

the jewel purifier and alchemy of travelers

who confine themselves to find what they already lavish.

O Source of Refinement!

Forgive the ramblings of this bitter ancient child.

Hold me to your bosom of a million udders,

and do not shudder when I behead you with a scalpel

after the fumes of your empire have driven me wild!

Image by Rondell Melling from Pixabay

The wind whirled

through the hollow mountains and empty forests.

In the live gardens of dormancy,

its frolic met the shadow of its conscience.

The black wind rose and blew the carrion of hope

into the multifarious crevasses of the underworld;

for if there once stood a heart so pure,

the currents of Tartarus reclaimed parentage

over the zephyr most blithesome.

“O Bearers of Beauty and Paladins of Life’s Glow!”

roared the child of hidden thorns;

“Have you no sentiment for the suffering of the sickly nursed?

Woe betide your cowardice

as the world transpires under the vexing star of vacuity!

Lassitude unsurpassed dims the ancient fire and condones lies.

Where is the embrace of sweet night?

Where the dynamic current that transcends flesh and bypasses time?”

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

In the breeze lies no breath

for which I extend my grip and forbear my weeping.

In every garden a pricking thorn

for every poignant rose worth keeping.

The tides wash over the sands of my soul –

wax me stagnant,

gorgonize me on the spot,

tease the ground so tarnished with the white execrable.

Erewhile it had not mattered,

but the name of her burst forth of every mouth

in the hopes the prayers were answered.

They knew not their saviour laid breathless and disarranged

at the bottom of the old stone well amidst the town square,

that I bled her to death with a pen to quench my thirst,

to spare myself of beholding her face.

Clouds had not ere brought about the darkness,

and pouring ceased not thereafter.

The sun had fallen into the land of the forgotten,

and in her stead a young black star was lauded.

The sun never tarnished, if you ever wonder.

The sun alone perished without warning.

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.

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?”