Salt on your Wounds

Image by Saulius Rozanas from Pixabay

I am

Salt on your wounds –

The sacred opiate

To your mortal tomb.

Linger on my kisses,

The ebony wedlock

Of your ethereal wishes.

~*~

I am

Salt on your wounds –

Poisoned goblet,

Watchful shadow enthused.

Linger on my kisses,

The ecstatic union of death

Devouring fears from night

‘Till the rise of day.

~*~

I am

Salt on your wounds –

The Darkness of your soul

Tearing down the prison of the world.

Linger on my kisses.

Taste the sap of my holy vileness,

Your rightful lover virgined in

Sin and satin.

~*~

I am

Salt in your wounds –

The forbidden fruit,

The gatekeeper and key

Of darksome tide love

And nighttime liberty.

Linger on my kisses,

Wintry lips whispering

Over casket wombs

Of eerie spring,

Of olden alchemy.

~*~

I am

And you are mine.

Image by Dieter Robbins from Pixabay

Umbra & the First General of the Cavalry – Imperial Ball (III)

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.

Brine and Outrage of the Distant Brethren

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

Denuding the wintry scales

of a dragon loved in empty disgrace

did bring oblivion to its knees ‘fore the arch-way of self-rendition.

The elusive symptom summoned the tidal wave

of the titan in emerald turnt gray.

“No more stone frontage!”, cried the oracle behind the stage,

“Harness the glory of the sunken race

as the triple head of sovereignty manifest”.

“It is dangerous”, I said, “a peril and terror of the earthly depth”.

“I know the wraith’s caress”, the oracle emerged more or less;

“The ice age preserved the pulsations of the roots’ remains.

Silver and mercurial in sentiment,

he whose path is marked by watchful consciousness is bound to rule

or die by his own intellect”.