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.

Dare you savour the rain, the salted thunderstorm

from the still waters of the midnight lake?

Would you waltz past the terrain of creation’s sparkling rave,

and sample the sorrow of a dreamer in the arms of nothingness?

You! What do you know about yourself

save the crumbs which herald the labour of your grave?

Would you laugh and praise the years of inherited nonsense,

or frolic insane to the Void womb of spheres twain?

~*~

Rain, the eternal autumn of the incising lens.

All life within a dream of a dreaming nullity which rests.

And it is this, this fractal light, this temporal chiming bell

which weeps and pains; for its very nature it cannot consign

to the embrace of the Genderless Mother

whose silence grieves and puzzles

even those of infernal descent.

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.

“Lazokar, Lazokar, let the empire rise.”

Deep within the Balkans

sits a crowned shadow –

eyes fathomless, the spirit of a warrior.

Wrought by the cruelty of a world lost to chains,

he has vowed to never be weak again.

~*~

Lazokar, Lazokar, no longer a slave.

Lazokar, Lazokar, his own sovereign.

Chilly spring brought the promise of a new horizon.

A daemon strange danced and sang in red lace.

A daemon strange evoked the taste of an old crave.

And she danced, and she said,

“Lazokar, Lazokar, let the empire rise”.

~*~

Deep within the Balkans

sits a crowned shadow –

eyes fathomless, the spirit of a warrior.

Holding the hand of a fiend of war,

the empire shall rise wise and energised.

Shrouded by dark that turns into light,

the king burns with faith renewed

in a world of made delight.

~*~

Daemon Red and Shadow Crowned orchestrate and pirouette.

In every breath, they sing and say,

“Let the empire take in upmost eminence”.

~*~

And if there were to come a time

when oblivion sieges the black sovereign,

the daemon fierce still will stand –

still will vocalise,

“Lazokar, Lazokar, let the empire rise”.

In soulful bane night,

the daemon red still shall slay the enemies of the crown –

spreading the venom of liberty for all frailty to chock down.