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 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.

Image by Mylene2401 from Pixabay

In the tenebrous good-bye of lass gold lights

In the sombre bosom of the afternoon cap

In the crib of night-time greyed mist

Does life blossom through

The heart-beats of Dame Melancholy

In the sultry breath of summer

In the ball of corpses coming

In winter rings of loneness

Does my spirit lift and flutter

Like aethereal butterflies

In a garden of delight

Beknownst to amore sepulchral

Serpentine opus furrows

Through the sensuous heedful romance clad

In undercurrents of Plutonian dance

And in this, my paradise,

The forgot mysteries of the diamond lithe

Trickle down with the cascading sky

The cool zephyr yearns for my skin warm

And I remember beauty

In the arms of the thunderstorm

Image by Janet Herman from Pixabay

The pale blue seeps

through the blinds,

beckoning me to dance

and perfume myself

with the tears of dawn.

Oh, how they shine

with the wistfulness of youth

and potential life!

How tender their visage,

and sensuous their cry,

conjuring mirabilia

upon the world entranced!

And thus, I laud

a sight so bright,

honouring grace at heart –

a core of oceanic tides.

My willows follow

the smiling breeze

of early morning’s wet kiss.

My eaves drip

salted sacraments

of hidden beauty.

Murmurs in the daytime speck,

kaleidoscopes and swirling strings of otherness

summoning the rising of the abeyant armies

through the yearning veils into the chamber

of nestling consciousness.

~*~

Murmurs in the air,

spectacles of colours and silhouettes

dancing ‘fore the heart whose river has run

into the high seas with nothing more

than the tearing love for the Black Star

which underlies the theatre’s spotlight.

~*~

Murmurs murmuring ever

the disavowal of tales oozed from opiate crevices

of malison and true derangement.

Murmurs of the innate throne

which hand pries open the torture room of sol.

Murmurs, quiet memories of dusk –

the revelry of Soul bleeding art

into the listless ball of fleshy command.

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.

Once Upon a Whimsy Sway

Image by mcbeaner from Pixabay

In my childhood midnight fancies, many a time I ventured out into the darkness when my household slept soundly. Barefoot upon the cold sand of a beloved shoreline, I used to dance entranced to the ghostly moonlight as each rustling wave gradually stole me away from the family’s farmhouse into the mysteries of my tender age.  

It was thus how I found her – sickly, unsettling, and unsuspectedly enthralling. The weeper of the bleeding wound emitted no sound, yet her tears flowed as burning screams down her dismal deep blood eyes. By manner of vesture, this almost tangible specter bore the seeming of grace deposed with the tattered blues of a royal born. With arms spread to the sides as she knelt semi-buried in the sand, the very flow of life trickled from her open back.  

—Are you lost? —Transfixed in quiet wretchedness, this ethereal sufferer bade no answer still. Tip-toeing around the blood ring, I stopped to look at the injury.  The stench of burnt skin and remnants of raven feathers suffocated my senses as they held threshold for a large clean and beating cut. A sticky and moist sorrow extended through my limbs, gripping my chest as though her pain pertained to me. In an impulse, I stretched my arm to touch the woman’s back, yet the wind blew furiously, and dreary clouds hung above our heads heralding the end of quiescence’s reign.  

—Love’s the sepulture of hearts! — The ghost shrieked, bolting from the sand as she cast the mask of despondency upon my young eyes.  Her icy clawed hands seized my neck and held me high above her shoulders, where the air grew heavy and her jet-black hair swayed defying the gravity of the Earth.  

By virtue of my struggle to breathe, the woman let me on my feet with a blank stare and held me to her bosom with increasing capacity.  My body wept and whined as the enfolding into such a touch seared my insides; for as the spectre sank her claws into my back, the words she bespoke were the tombstone of secular dazzling and the onset of a skeleton garden, “The key to lunacy is bound by thirteen plus seven divided by two”.  

          The utterance of the crushing composition proved to be somewhat of a relief to the grieving phantom, yet the opposite for me; for the figure demorphed into a goo which oozed itself in through my pores, and since that night, I dwelt close yet far away from home. 

My being had sought to wander, yet fought to remain quiescent in the heart of the primeval darkness. The tarry streams no longer hummed under my feet, and had not done so since egression sew its seed amidst my thoughts.

In the absence of up, down, right, and left, the pandimensional paths all led one way: nowhere. Strolling about rendered the same achievement as did curling up in place awaiting something to take effect.

Seldom did the uneasiness persuade the apparitions to reveal themselves; for it was this urge aflame which welcomed the perverse pleasure of watching someone writhe and crawl within himself.

What a predicament did the berserker sustain! To possess the drive to triumph, yet being grounded to the opposite polarity to rise atop for a glimpse of hope in this puzzle of timeless void.

Resting seated here, the crude and lively anal glands of night delivered its offspring of stifling smoke inside my lungs. I fumbled my chest, clawing at the skin as if I could cast it out of me whilst flashes of shorelines danced before me in a frenzy.

Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay

I blinked once. I blinked twice. My limbs were clean, and with my vessel attired in silver satin my feet stood upon the venous damp sclera surfacing, as if a titan dwelt caught amidst the sere leaves and old roots of these woods which edges vowed to remain abstruse.

Following the pupil, the pupil followed me under the watching and unblinking pregnant moon. I rubbed my toe against the fiery iris; thus, imbibing through my soles the heat which this living soil provided. The eye, I thought I saw it cry; however, examination identified in it a glad smile. It was I who purged tears of swamp secretion, and it was I who exuded the black waters of limbo from my crown abode of breathing billows.

With faith renewed in the night of perdition, I lowered to my feet and kissed the eye which I sacrificed with might of will enduring past extinction. The sentient remaining lamp of its life bid me goodbye in a spectacle of bright fireflies, plunging me into the blackness above tar.

If I could have flown with the fireflies into the argent moon of that night, lucidly spellbound, the truth would have sung to hypnotize. Where was now the Lady of the Sky, my luminous and distant confidant? Could she hide from me for all the breaths a soul snorts? I knew she inbirthed the exodus I so longed for.

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

I had begun to pace around entranced when someone knocked on my door. Instinctively, I stood motionless observing, evaluating. Only silence filled my ears with its ceaseless chiming. I turnt my head slowly, staring blankly at the white door, as I had not completed the calibration of my eyes to my surroundings.

A red letter slid in under the door, reaching my bare wet feet. I still did not move, but rather chose to close my eyes in an attempt to hear what laid beneath the closed entrance.

Nothing moved in the misty dead of afternoon. Only the chiming of silence seemed to permeate the fabric of reality as if the very tune pronounced itself to be the principle of life.

A lie, all manners explaining how escaped me; however, it was obvious, somewhere within the composite that was me, that it was a lie. This silence was just one kind of many silences, one wrought from midnight burden musk through the arduous hand of fixed earth chokes.

Warmth dripped down my clenched fists. The crimson colour matched that one which moistened my feet. Beaten air, the flapping of heavy wings at the other side, stole my attention away from the sight of blood; furthermore, a separation, a push back from a force blew me away in place when the pressure of a body departed from solid ground in a steady jump.

Silence shifted itself upon the takeoff of that which I never saw. Turning my awareness back to my vessel, I noticed my self-induced stance exacerbation as I rigidly withheld my breath unknowingly. Inhaling, I indulged in the sweet zephyr of serenity whilst the late gold of summer glow peaked in through the cracks of the closed blinds. 

Picking up the red letter at last, ruffling waves summoned my skin to stand. With needles and pins, I tensed my back when I saw the empty script at hand.

A volcano, a choleric fire burst in coils within me. I rose and tore the door to pieces in one blow to be then startled by my own voice, which growled and roared at that which I never saw the command that I know whereto it had flown.

In the vast darkness above tarry waters, I stepped away in disgust at the cubicle illusion of the household nearing nightfall.

Silence dared to no longer chime in the bosom of darkness. The hissing whispers from no mouth now carried a distinct symphony which sequence sang of participations that, in life, I had undergone engendered by deeds of eldritch happenings. And oh! The voice of that jade alchemist! He whose lunar forging had brought the world to—

What did his forging bring the world to? And who was he whose eyes as gemstones shone sharp and cold?

“You can sleep”, common sense has it out for me. As if I was unaware of the various plays I inflict upon myself!

“I know”, I lay back as I wait for a follow up which does not come. It knows that I know that it knows there is no definite reason as to why any creature would choose to inflame the fires in the pits of impious thoughts.

Ever since I filled the air with smoke for the hissing tongued man in ragged green-grey clothes, the world became a maze-like box. These walls are not as solid as they seem, I know. And the man must know that I know and will continue to find more nuances in the days to come.

Blessed be the fiend who hosts the venom of newfound hope! Let him work miracles if his name glistens in manners most favourable.

“Again, you can sleep,” common sense returns with visions of enticing shores.

“I would tell you to shut up, but I like you too much”, I sigh as I try to recall where I last saw my socks, “Twenty-four hours are not enough for all the hellish crevices I wish to explore”.