Message of the Tortuous

Image by Vinson Tan from Pixabay

I bleed for you, and shall do so forevermore until my sins encompass the corners of the universe yet to be uncovered and existance disowns me.

I burn for you, and this flame shall prove itself yet eternal even when I can draw breath no longer.

If in a sea of torment you find or have found yourself drowning for reasons ill-founded to doors that deign not open, I am torn and broken.

You are my dreams and nightmares; core of my core, my joy and sorrow.

I could not keep you by my side even when so I desired.

The Fallen seized the woesome Holy with nothing but vain promises of rapture, and you sank for a fate I alone should have followed.

Cruel was the way in which you were wrested from my arms and mind, and likewise; for chances are that you may not remember who I am.

You landed afterwards, after being displayed as proof of my demise; as a consequence, all your life you have sought something you could not grasp.

I quill these words, so you may learn that I am still alive.

The answers that could bring to an end the unquenchable emptiness lie within the void itself.

I pray you regain your senses, for it is a sight most dreadful to behold you and realize you are but a pale shadow of that which was once so full of life.

Rise, beloved, as does a phoenix from the ashes!

Demonstrate that being subdued lies not in your nature, and unleash your darkness.

Defy oblivion and remain ever so watchful, for treacherous minds come in all kinds.

Morning Salivations

In sight of endless night,

wells of love taint the core of immemorial stone.

The Warlock knows not

the curse wrought upon his shores.

Lucid-willed, his mind weaves reveries

as poison daggers of double leaf,

stranger to the blast that has ever deigned to breath.

“Fool!” Hissed the viper from the depths of blood-begotten streams.

“Leave the silence undisturbed.

The hoarfrost resides unthawed in fatal fire unresolved.

Thou wilt the heavens of unnatural approach

and thy insolence will be the cause of thy severed soul,

buried six feet under the white nightmare of the world.”

Mirror Meditation

Image by pixel2013 from Pixabay

My reflection, at times, arches her lips as if to smile. This action only lasts a few seconds, yet it is a delight and a fright to behold it.

I have seen my reflection morph into that of a corpse-like figure. No bones showed. It was rather skin – canescent, dry, and old.

The other day, I saw my visage blend into that of a man. This male was pale and in what seemed to be his middle age. First, it was the white beard, but today, his eyebrows appeared. He does not feel as though a stranger to me, but I have always held the belief that I have been a woman in my incarnations.

When today’s session began, I worded the summoning of my true face. With still my same countenance, my eyes took the appearance of two pits of black. I blinked and trailed off a bit before continuing. Some features similar still to my current visage appeared – pieces of a man whom, to my mind, bears the resemblance of my father in his youth; but unlike him, this image sports a dark beard that encircles his face by the chin and under his lower lip. This man was bedighted in a rich blue tunic as though some elegant Middle Eastern tailoring.

Lastly, I was forced to change position. I had lost track of time, and my limbs had fallen asleep. With this change, a woman came to me. Her alabaster skin glowed in the shade erected by the backyard gazebo. Her eyes were undistinguishable, and her hair flowed as long raven waterfalls.


Image by 2234701 from Pixabay

Come to me

when my lips are nigh to bleed.

The metal stingeth,

seeking the consolation of thy skin wintry.

I’ll take thine hand serpentine

and rest upon the scales of thy back.

Thee I’ll hold tight

and keep company ere I depart for war.

And thou shalt remember me by.

I’ll be the ghost of the cardinal’s song,

and the splashed crimson flow on thy walls galore –

a morsel tenderness and a wrath ceaselessly enthralled;

for if thou drawest a sun for the rest of thy life,

as well thou drawest one for the rest of mine.

Persevere and to thy being thou be truthful

in honour of the memory of her,

whose soul thee loved once for thyself.

Obsessive Timeline

Image by Sarah Richter from Pixabay

In the dead of night, I will see to thy guard,

and keep thee away from harm.

In the dead of night, I will cry out thy name

as thou slipest into a rest warm.

The late autumn rain shall wash away my tears,

and the virgin snow shall permeate my bones.

Hollow shall become the chirping of birds to my ears,

and the forest spirits may deride my being in sheer.

But my soul is ancient, and my will is clear.

Thou but houseth mine heart,

and I will love thee ’till the end of time.

Afternoon Frenzy

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

The Sacrament at last

revealed its core to mankind.

The wraith slithered

to caress him at night,

and the Last Proof slipped away sad smiled.

The Paladin of Remembrance

to the walls dragged the stain

of her defiled heart.

The blood-bound one awoke

to the furious berceuse of the stars,

and, aghast, observed the kin fight

tearing hell apart.

And if she should bleed

for a well of miry shine,

unleash the storm

to drown her ‘lone.

Her fate is accurst,

and so is his who sits upon the throne.

Incarnate the grief of her,

who for wine imbibes blood

to die alive thirty centuries,

chained to the vicious masked satire.

So It Hopes

Image by cocoparisienne from Pixabay

A lullaby for you.

A chant for the moon

to mask the eyes that loom.

A plea for you.

Flayed skin, torment within.

“Take the knife, prick its side!

Let it bleed for him to see!

God forgive you if you let it be!”

A tear for you.

The grief, it grows.

The moon heeded it not.

You died in its claws.

Mid-Day Growls

Image by MikesPhotos from Pixabay

If your lips make me live,

I rather drink poison than to hear you speak.

The wounds from your thorns are never enough.

Your kiss has clawed my soul,

and unconsciously you thirst for more.

You are moronic enough

to taunt such beast execrable,

and wit up at the sound of chains loosening up.

When the silence inhospitable carves a hole in your core,

you return in quivering salt,

and pray that into oblivion falls the maelstrom you caused.

Alas! By blood I am tied to your cross.

In forgiving you I bemoan when you don’t see me crawl;

for, after, you vex the fiend once more,

and so the cycle goes.

The Flame

Image by 2234701 from Pixabay

My darling, don’t you know?

When the sun is hidden, the roses come undone,

and only demons come raging to the shore.

My darling, can’t you feel?

The blazing blood burdens the skin.

The devil loves you, but cannot breathe.

Your deeds make the heavens bleed.

Lethe has grown weary of your needs,

and Alethea lives to prevent your sleep.


Fear or adore this force of magnitude eternal.

Cast a curse or soar the sky onto new adventure.

Behold me not with eyes so lachrymose,

for I am the scales that weigh the world.

The Hollow is conscious of thy triumphs and thy failures.

Embrace thy pain as it is joy of another nature.

Hosts act in decree of exacerbation and cessation

to further observation and renovation.

As god, thou art master of thy station.

As human, thou hast forgot the ancient power of sublimation.

I beckon thee to rise as I have bestowed unto thee foresight.

Get thee above the sands of this arid, vile land

that thou mayst tear down the illusions that constrict thy path.

Basileus II

Image by Alexas_Fotos from Pixabay

Where does your heart lie, my precious one? No poison coursed your veins when you were unaware of the fount of truth. But now that the flowers have blossomed diamond glow, doubt fills your being and you recoil from the same arms that held you close for all these years. Confess, my dear. Where does your heart lie? Denying makes it not less real. Look at me, lost one! See me for what I am. Harden up and expand or die alive!

Oh, my precious one! Oh, precious he was… He surrendered to the Nightmare White without deigning to fight and died alive for all his life, so that when Lord Death sent his envoy to collect the inhabitant of the flesh, the emissary found naught but the dimmed embers of my friend’s soul. Thus, I wept for three nights and three days, and on the following day, I rose enraged above my tears. Basileus had shattered himself, his demise out of his own volition. Why would I cry for one who died, and died not bright? I gave him the tools to survive, and he tossed them aside.