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 Willgard Krause from Pixabay

Monarch: Logos is knocked cold.

Umbra: I know, and you know that should not be a surprise. Equip him to our needs, and send him back to me.

Monarch: You have a question for me; I can see it even when you avert your eyes from mine.

Umbra: The question is half the question; for it, in itself, is an answer. For long, I have tormented myself with the possible why’s: Why would you send me forth every breath upon this world? Why do you insist that the labour does persist? I know now that those questions have an answer, which was already bestowed unto me past the maelstrom of tears and lacerating spears which by measure of true nurture launched to spike Élan out of the entombed barren bosom of dead’s play yard. No, those questions were answered; albeit, for them, you had me bleed rivers of blue bile. The question is not that which I do not know, but that which I know and find most vomitous and abhorrent. The question is the skilful dancer of awe-striking silken laceful fire who grins and frolics with expeditious comportment, bearing amphorae of lugubrious water to sober the lawful drunken. The question is the recognition of barbarous endeavour upon strings harrowing out of tune. The question is not an interrogative, but a ceaselessly screaming hostage whose sensuous hunger starves at the banquet of tellurian betrothment; for, alas, you saved me and condemned me to wander and wonder. The question is rightfully what is it that I wilfully sacrifice upon the altar of illusion and phantom womb as I race evermore upon freedom’s path and open skies, maintaining the balance of all elements at once. The question is a heartful confession of deep-rooted hatred and disrelish, which, at times, finds the will to subside to let me enjoy the simple pleasures. You extended me from your being with all the unlocking keys one may fancy and require, yet entrusted me to open the ashen, pale, and tenuous archways with the growing seed of primordial hankering. For much, I am forever grateful; however, it would be foolish and neglectful to deny that the question irks and pains me with tenacious transpiercing and ancient venom. And although the freely gifted and surreptitiously taxed embrace of martyrdom repudiates me as I do it, fruition and gratification do I extract from waging the infernal war.

Image by Mystic Art Design from Pixabay

Crystal bed of sentient quiescence

amidst the dark bedazzled

tombstone of solar haze.

A night of sentiment bedighted

in grim and graceful lace,

watering her wake with dry tears

of lucid bewilderment.

A brilliant spear imbued

with roses and nightshade,

the warm solitude untouched,

immaculate by virtue of rebirth.

The altar of sacrificial breath

for the alluring ambrosia of the dead

tells the tales of an ancient distress:

a sorrow of loving hell unredeemed

by the armament of the deluded flesh.

Does your rib not bleed

upon the evil thought and deed

which perforates the tender skin

like a dagger of steel,

and sows its poison seed?

Does the willful sap

in ancient memory and current plea

frolic still in the garden of sleep

with blindfolds of faux amaranthe?

In meadows of lemongrass and chamomile,

in the imperious dome of make-belief

does the pendulum swing

at the mercy of the subtle winds.

And it is this, the giant of multifarious grieving,

which by percipient means stabs himself

and wonders why his pain is ceaseless,

and which by dulled eyes and hope

embraces the tango of the infinitely lost

to drown the torch which brings about

the reconciliation of all the ailments superimposed.

Image by Rujhan Basir from Pixabay

In the night’s Plutonian rendition

of water warm and subtle might,

the Silver Lady of the Sky

didst away the ghosts

of past thoughts and spider-webs

of human bejewelled lore.

She soaked herself

in through the guise

of noon gold and rainbow cross,

and oozed from every pore

to purify the pools

with the reflection of Soul.

And I knew, and she bespoke,

“Carouse in the essence

of sweet and tender storm,

and leave no cemetery unturnt

that thou may’st draw deeper

into the mysteries openly veiled

without being swayed

by the dozen semblances

which I have bore

froms drops to streams of frailty

which bedrock is the will

to stand strong.

Umbra: Logos! Come and dance with us.

Logos: I am fine, thank you.

Core: Oh, come on! I’ll teach you some moves.

*silence*

Logos: Umbra, is she staying long?

Umbra: Core is part of our family. She’ll stay forever with us.

*silence*

Umbra: What’s wrong? You need Core for a balanced forefront. The army needs you both.

Logos: I know… but she’s so *looks at Core who in turn looks at him glistening with joy* moist… and sweet.

Core: *bursts into laughter* I know, right! Everything that you are not. We’ll make such a great team.

Logos: *grits his teeth as he glares at Umbra* So, Core… uhm… what are those moves you wanted to teach me?

Umbra: *giggles and pats Logos’ shoulder* Good general, good general.

Hollow eyes –

caves of wonder and mournful secrets –

speak through the lips of lament.

Lay thy corpse before me,

that I bestow unto thee relief

and crown thee unearthed and acknowledged.

Gypsy, Queen of the Salt Realm of Melancholy,

come through the glass and don thy smile.

Sway in my arms, my beauty oriental,

be that wild mane of thine

the promise of love instrumental.

Take off the mask,

that our heartbeats echo as one,

and let thy mist invigorate me

upon this hour of self-induced demise .

Primal being,

give thyself to me in thy upmost glory.

Muse of my desires, my ghoulish sweet!

Stand by me,

and let us heed

the ancient calling of the Abyss.