The wind-beaten lake was beset by offshore storms of confounded and weeping veils. In the midst of the tempest, awareness rose enraged to calm the waters, and the mirror-like lake became a reflection of an alternate state. All knights gathered under one plate, one flag, one creed to sustain: one-pointed laser stare beyond the conceivable extent; thus, the voice was the wordless wordly observant who severed the umbilical cord of the pre-conceptual which sat in the cave of his own reflection to execute the ways of consolidation.
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.
Crystal bed of sentient quiescence
amidst the dark bedazzled
tombstone of solar haze.
A night of sentiment bedighted
in grim and graceful lace,
watering her wake with dry tears
of lucid bewilderment.
A brilliant spear imbued
with roses and nightshade,
the warm solitude untouched,
immaculate by virtue of rebirth.
The altar of sacrificial breath
for the alluring ambrosia of the dead
tells the tales of an ancient distress:
a sorrow of loving hell unredeemed
by the armament of the deluded flesh.
“You are one to abhor attachments that, like chains, hold you to an immutable terrain of flesh-eating corpses, yet by contradiction of your modus operandi, you launch against the Maiden of Oblivion with stark acrimony.”
“I see that being left alone with me has set your talents free. Do you enjoy what you see? Let all who have eyes to see and all ears to hear how all difference and manners come to be. Yes, I abhor her whose promise is weak, as I do loathe the haze of dormancy, yet that hardly makes me a hypocrite. You see, in my centuries alive, I have never measured progress through the eclipse and dearth of consciousness. I am the mindful memory who propels forward with sentient step, crafting jewels out of events that nothing may go to waste. I accept my responsibility toward myself, and erect pillars of serving grace. I forgo surrendering war to the deceitful bliss of forgetfulness, and embrace the shadows born from my ancient crevices.”
Coarse skinless fireflies traced the trail back
to the dwelling of the empyrean eye
which oversees all things past, present, and future alike.
It is the florescence –
the swirling sentiency unswayed by mortal screeches
sustaining pillars of self-adversity.
In the breeze lies the breath of the wisdom of antiquity.
In the breeze lies the answer to all questions accordingly.
It is the florescence –
the collector of currency in alchemy,
and the subtle link of life and balmy clarity.
“Liberation is the way!”, it tore from my throat and chest,
that if all senses obeyed one wish,
they would be exiled
through the stellar gateways of creativity.
Coarse skinless fireflies adorned the crown of night
from the cradle to the zenith,
observing the strange luminous shapes in the dark.
It was the florescence –
the crystal ally which deemed
the twin mirrors not parallel
to embark on the sail throgh
the infernal lands.
I’ve seen the deserts of life –
sear heartbeats transfixed on a dune in time.
But I know where the lost ones direct their cries.
I’ve seen the oasis give balm to the wounded and the weary,
to the queer grim outlanders defying the streams contemporary.
You, who challenged, absorbs the fumes of nightside venom tunes;
you, who burnt by the ardent sun hollow and lonesome,
can’t yet look outside the chamber of confusion; you!
Surrender to the Abyss and be transfigured in the womb
which exalts the soul by virtue of its very core.
She helps you to die to raise you stronger than before.