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 pieonane from Pixabay

Every spring is a delirious dream,

a fever of singing birds beaking

at the ribcage of the shadow of death.

Every spring, the tales of old fall asleep

to the chiming of wishes

which nature is to defy

the will to apotheosis.

But every spring takes the edge

off the wine of misery.

At one point, no reflex will escape

the awareness and dance of the puppeteer –

being there but forethought

and synergy with the lower machinery.

Thus, every spring is but a glass of alchemy.

Be drunk! Be mad! – Never still.

For the road is long in the quest for eternity.

Ay Rosalba, how stubborn you are!
You’d be singing angelic choirs
had you submerged your gall
until your wounds closed up
and your Saturnian plot
met the soul urge
under the eyes of dawn.
God-damned it, Rosalba!
You’ve hung yourself up.
No hand will save you
save your own.
Stars now conspire
to make you strong.
You asked for it.
Now, dive into the tarry streams
and show me the glory
of an immortal unleashed.

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”.

“Sí se puede”, I often heard. A phrase bearing the meaning of a possible endeavour, that it is possible to carry on and be victorious against the enemy.

Image Not By Alyona

“¡Sí se puede!”

I wondered what in soothe was possible, and then I said to myself, “It is possible to cry, to scream, and to die”.

Ruins will engage the eye with woe and nostalgia as the many pretty murals lauding comunism and the spooned psychological combat against an invisible adversary will display where all the care has been bent to.

Mother Nature stands as an entity uncorrupt. With semblance still virginal and fertile, she screams of potential; still her hand is vacant and devoid of pleasure.

Nature blossoms astoundingly vivacious as population is abased with everyday effort. But worry not, for it is possible. It is possible to be beaten and squeezed until the shores of the afterlife are reached. The war has already a victor in its own world of make-believe.

Image by Alyona
Image by baetzpetra from Pixabay

Easy it is to romanticise the land for her magnificent groves and mountains, for her promoted beaches. Only the inhabitants of this island reversed in time will reveal the truth that breath-taking pictures and the flora and fauna hide.

I have heard misery-conscious mouths avow that Cuba is delightful. Thus I wonder Do you find pleasure in starving? In being deprived of the basic untainted liquid that sustains life? If you enjoy the existing conditions so much, why don’t you stay and carouse until you putrify? Do you suffer from amnesia that when you depart you forget the sweat and the tears of the countrymen, or are you the kind to portray a deceptive reality to the ignorant eye? If that is so, I damn you to retrace your steps and recognise that common life takes after the appearance of a dump that overflows.

Withal dare say I that Cuba is an enjoyable land, beheld from the distance through some foreign godhead’s eye. Majestic in nature, death in the eye. Majestic in nature, oppression in the human heart.

With a raging sword poised to slice, I still wish to add that all of this I cannot chastise. Hard times forge individuals of a lofty stock. Warriors stand, strength surmounts all obstacles. People live mostly through what pertains to their personal and higher growth.

I wondered anew what was possible, and to myself I then said, “The magnitude of reality is felt through personal perception. It is all mental, and the learning process is eternal”.