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

Image by Karolina Grabowska from Pixabay

Science cannot explain

the transient rising of the blood wave,

or heartbeat knives as cyanide

taking turns to carve their signature

in soul stone at the sun’s maiden rays.

It was the fluorescence.

It was the song of consciousness –

silken, madness and reverie-begotten.

It was the heart beyond the thresholds of haze

and the creed of the adrift and forgotten.

It was the dual scaled, mercurial, and golden threads

in amphorae that pour the light which shadows shrieked to consolidate.

And science cannot explain the keys bronzed by the path foreseen

in the soil from which branches the willow tree.

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.

Image by Karen Smits from Pixabay

The skeleton is scattered upon the old carpet.

The closet’s door is blown to shards,

and blood is splashed on the wall.

It trickles down to the spinning floor.

‘Twas I who dragged out the bones –

for retribution, for pain, for a love much higher than the taught self.

And I look at myself,

“Who shall hoist thee better than thyself?

Nay.

Break thyself.

Return to the earth

through the sacred fire of willful vision and rise, dear Phoenix!

Rinse the ashes off thy vibrant plumage,

and continue where the fight challenged thee last”.

“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.