The Price of What You Want

Image by Harry Strauss from Pixabay

The price of what you want is not a price because a price does not exist.

The price of you want is merely a self-transformation for you to flourish into the greatest that you can be. And once you know what you want, you will never be able to return to where you were before you knew.

The price of what you want is to dare to be yourself unapologetically.

The price of what you want is to realize that, even in all as one, you are an individual of upmost particular value to yourself.

The price of what you want is the bravery of letting go of old detrimental patterns of thought, emotion, behaviour, and connections, shouting and bleeding, “I’ve had enough!!”, and revolutionize your ways to see yourself prosper.

The price of what you want is the courage to trample fear and look straight into the pitch black unknown unfazed.

So, come what may!

The price of what you want is your liberation from all you have ever deigned to complain about. You kindle your circumstances by way of your own reactive methods.

The price of what you want is to remember yourself.

Enough of empty words!

Enough of fleeting fantasies!

Know yourself, and see what you want fulfilled!!

In the Breath Between

Image by LUM3N from Pixabay

The scent of pine oozed into my lungs like smooth melting sugar as I walked through the recently rain-bathed forest. The crisp green and earthly tones of nature suggested emotive tales of imagination, dating to, or rather pointing to a timeless memory of home where my heart swelled with blissful sweetness and emanated with self-indulging love.

I laid upon the wet pine straw; a bed once dreamt ‘mid the forest clearing. Although the late afternoon sun radiated through the nearby droplets suspending from all around, traces of storm clouds hung above the glade to shelter me with their coolness.

The sound of the dancing river to the north and the whistling mockingbirds cast the trance of a tribal enchantment, serving together as gatekeepers into the subtler realms of being. Little eyes peeked out curiously through the angles adjacent to the forest’s gleam in this in-between, desirous to know who came to drowse amidst their digs.

Blending softly in the breeze, the whispers and hushed words of the forest denizens became swirls of their resolve to welcome me. Their lulling touch reminisced about the weaving threads where wanderers and spirits met for ecstatic frolic in the fold of freedom borne by the young hearts of jolly children.

Tortuous Clockwork – 02/06/2021

Image by Prettysleepy from Pixabay

Nightfall bells

in silken sinuous trail

coil ’round the zephyr,

which by queer,

fragmental scream

roams as nothing

in ardent thought to be.

The chiming whispers

seething from the subtlety

announce the arrival

of clanging chains most antique.

And in this garden

of black metallic bliss,

denied their existence is.

In this garden

of black metallic will,

wild wicked

does the gaping jaw

commences the rite of blighting

with memories of instinctive dances

by poison fire and blue lotus medicine.

Eyes of the Black Sun – 02/04/2021

In the heart of darkness,

death blows me a kiss;

her shadow lips

leave molten clay on my being,

and the arms of autumn

at perennial work rejuvenate me

in the womb of Abyss.

In the heart of darkness,

death blows me a kiss;

from her citadel she sings

she sings the reverse canticle unseen,

and I run to salute her

with devotion bittersweet.

In the heart of darkness,

the sanguine breaths into lucidity;

its palpitations paint the end of all aeons,

their nescience and assiduity.

The torpid cave in

under the crushing might

of primeval pelagic fist,

and I watch undaunted

the satire stomp in fury

as it frolics with ardent lunacy

to the calling of non-being.

Suolavaltakunta

Image by 2234701 from Pixabay

Yö tanssii päiväsurmaajana

hulluudesta kunniaan ja loistoon;

sen huulilta maistuu merenneidon katkeruudelta,

ja niistä syntyy uusia myrkkyjä.

Suolapyhäköissä kuiskutellaan

syvyyksien terävää kieltä;

tulipunaisena ja tulikyntenä

herää se lupaava kiihko,

joka heikkoja appaa

ja kuolemattomien verellä maalaa

rivistöön olemisen.

Encanto Agridulce

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay 

Los párpados embriagados

de elixir noctívago y sueño territorial

entretienen el vals del agridulce violonchelo

en el funeral de la noche que profesa

sus últimos momentos en susurros viperinos,

desvelando así con certeza los enigmas

que el corazón no confiesa con sobriedad.

Y en el terso mirar

de las sombras en el umbral,

místicas siluetas prometen regresar

y bailar y cantar celebrando la derrota

del orbe áureo celestial

en su carruaje mutable de amanecer

y luz de diurno manantial.

En el tierno parpadear,

el respiro se hace tenue en romance liminal.

Las mágicas siluetas prometen regresar,

y en su partida los labios musitan,

“Abrazadme una vez más”.

El Amante Idílico

Image by Simon Giesl from Pixabay

Me dedico a tu mirar,

corazón salvaje – bardo de canto brutal

sobre el vaivén de las tinieblas

azoradas por tu pasión sanguinaria.

Me dedico a tu mirar,

corazón antiguo – seductor de las estrellas

en el rito de las estelas de almizcle dulce

y hoguera primordial.

Tu voz se hace entrever sin palabras

sobre mi piel desatada en el grito del placer eterno,

y cada noche adulo tu esencia bélica

en el romance fiero de la bestia

que en sí encuentra propio anhelo.

Arrullos de la Noche Pensativa

Del regazo encumbrecido

por las llamas del desafío

brotan rostros de fantasmas:

adumbraciones de la frente cándida

y la promesa larvada de un trino transcendental,

evocativas de la pasión inaugural

de un trayecto elemental

que anhelan la libertad de trenzar

pulsaciones de sangre vívida y éctasis lunar.

Labios de seda componen poemas

sobre las olas turbulentas de la oscuridad,

y el amante teje entre suspiros las esferas de su realidad.

El Grial de las Profundidades

Image by Ann_Milovidova from Pixabay

Dado el toque del abismo resplandeciente

bajo la mirada de la serpiente señorial

de los secretos a vela en carne inerte,

bailan como ninfas de cuello y holgura

con beso supurante y ansias de amalgura

esas lóbregas ligaduras – malhirientes asesinas –

en busca de quien por sombra y cultura huya

de esa voz – esa dulce lírica nocturna –

que alimenta los destellos del alma

y en sus latidos revela la vida pura.

To Quell Bananas in Cuckoo-Store

~ No picture! Nothing would ever represent it. ~

Methought to amuse the unthinkable,

to run after the trace of All that is and naught

just to race like a wild horse in circles of tail-tale,

and become bemused - more still desertly mad

in the uneasiness of human mind frenzied!

For realities merge, crash, and detach 'fore our eyes -

ever real, but always mythical.

A twin of water weeps as it rejoices 

at the majesty of the phenomenon.

Deep within, all the fleshly suited renters

thirst for the goblet which will never quench

the full abstract desire.

We of the Weeping Bloodlet

Divided we stand in the sight of a frozen sun, salivating for the wine that would assuage our inner draught only to beset ourselves with the oozing bile of desert forests and pregnant voidness.

You are not empty who feels neither world nor fellow creature sentient, who neither sees the road nor heeds primal urge line-up. You are not undone who by strain and drunk melancholy spouses your pain into caves of clanship blindness.

Do not think, but feel again the wordless voice drowned in waves of taught heartache. You are a treasury of inconmensurable power waiting to be fertilised by rightful seed and rain-falling.

If you are unsatisfied, and thereby crawling through the sewers of hopelessness, I dare say you need just wait for the burning stellar blaze which with sweetness buzzes in every cell. On that day, my dear bud, you will have come closer to yourself than all those years of nescient judgement under unawareness and preconceived notions of life and the self.

And in parting words I say, “Value yourself!”; for there is no other like you, and it would be a shame to see you fade away locked up in the mutable illusions we have come to accept.

May you find a reason to smile this new year.

Sincerely,

Alyona

The Pale Lover

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

Winter is here. Saturn strokes his beard, and the sages retreat into their caves to ponder upon the mysteries of death. The crows outside enliven the deafening silence, yet fall quiet with the same swiftness they took to their cawing.

In the cold breast of the sickle bearer, the dim grey world evokes an eldritch romance which human words stumble and fail to tongue. But buried in promising old tomes, I find the next stage for my atrocious play – a beauty which forlorn, a wisdom which is dreaded.