For this second coming, I call you to immerse yourself in this meditation video for you to find yourself and your joy in this life.

As always, it is my wish that with every breath you may find a way to be eased off distress.

Sincerely,

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.

Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay

“You are one to abhor attachments that, like chains, hold you to an immutable terrain of flesh-eating corpses, yet by contradiction of your modus operandi, you launch against the Maiden of Oblivion with stark acrimony.”

~*~

“I see that being left alone with me has set your talents free. Do you enjoy what you see? Let all who have eyes to see and all ears to hear how all difference and manners come to be. Yes, I abhor her whose promise is weak, as I do loathe the haze of dormancy, yet that hardly makes me a hypocrite. You see, in my centuries alive, I have never measured progress through the eclipse and dearth of consciousness. I am the mindful memory who propels forward with sentient step, crafting jewels out of events that nothing may go to waste. I accept my responsibility toward myself, and erect pillars of serving grace. I forgo surrendering war to the deceitful bliss of forgetfulness, and embrace the shadows born from my ancient crevices.”

I laid siege to the empire of myself to haul my heart away from the throne of lies which years of exogenous depravity armored and bid the hideous sun to shine dead inside.

I burnt alive to rekindle the truth of the looped mask.

‘Tis not love of liquid gold; for this ancient fire is not capable of such devotion.

‘Tis not love of pious monger, but a massacre in infernally divine hunger.

This haunting craving is the wailing monster, the archfiend who clawed my consciousness in behest of warning me against the silent storm of the reasons blinded by veils enslaving desires.

No more!

The wretched one wished alone to remind me of all which I am not, and it took his perseverance along with the lower octave of a household’s tutelage to bring about the executioner to the exalted post upon which the gods of the underworld bled their might in sacrosanct horror as their passionate tears calcinated the world from above.

‘Tis destruction, the benison of a lofty power – death made into form.

‘Tis not love, but growth.

“Oh, good grief! How you do stand the-“

“Shh. Shut up and swing about.”

~*~

In passing of breathing pain –

a seldom voiced weight –

what prevents the difference

from crawling up a wall

and sainting the rib

into the murals of history?

In behest of tantalizing,

how does the blurry,

little drawing pecker itself

into a cubicle of still pretense?

That bastard!

That animal of mortal sense

running around against itself!