Of Fools’ Honey and Darksome Mercury

Image by Alyona Uramuru

The fool by nature, despite his common condemnation, is the first figure who dares to explore, use his imagination, and bring about innovation. Surely, it is the fool’s agency to be the first to defy convention to find his own treasure. Laugh if you must, but remember it is the fool who does what most frightfully only behold with longing in their wildest fantasies and fascination.

Alyona Uramuru

The most amazing and terrible thing about asking a question (or asking for anything) is receiving an answer that makes you realize exactly what you were looking for; thus striking you in such a way that you may need a moment before regaining composure, and even shed some tears.

Deep down you know exactly what you should be doing, what brightly kindles your passions and fills you with life. But out of doubt and fear, all you have ever known screams at you as if to dampen the flame of your heart because it is a daunting task and a huge responsibility. And you know that being truthful to yourself is your only salvation regardless of the great anxiety and pain eating at you.

I yelled and screamed a question long enough to receive a rumbling answer, with care and attention received my own salvation and damnation; for even though my passions rightfully live, I drink from my own shadows’ poison still to reconcile and liberate each nook and cranny from a society that little has done to polish the diamond of its many and varied treasured inhabitants.

If you were to stretch your hand and touch the ghastly and terrifying figures in your mind, your hand would pass through a curtain of fading smoke, and you would see you are in a labyrinth of mirrors where you are the sole inhabitant who oppresses himself by letting the tool of his servitude be the master of his torture – the very mind with which he lives: no longer a servant but a tyrant with a crown of illusions.

So, my dear, the quality of your experiences, whether they feel pleasant or not, depend rightfully on you. Be then the master of your mind because this tool, when left alone to wander, takes abode in every household provocative enough to attract it like a famished dog by nature of its non-judgemental logic to consume and produce the pleasures or hells of your reality.

Verily, there is no excuse to avoid doing what you know you should be doing.

Twenty-four Degrees in Wooden Arrows

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were – I have not seen

As others saw – I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I lov’d, I lov’d alone.”

“Alone”, Edgar Allan Poe

By lyrics unsung in the lunar springs,

I danced on the tongues of madness –

An epic eulogy of guileless tantrics,

The merciless eyes of acausality.

By prescient fires of ice and darkness,

The sea-floor’s vault was blown open.

The mortal coil withered in wonder,

And the world drowned in

The chestnut old

Of other-blunder.

Dancing on Graveyards

Apparently, today is the first anniversary of my arrival to WordPress, and the birth of the Nocturnal Versifier. I had some conceptual knowledge of the season, yet time itself escaped through the masks of existential atavism and continuous obsession with mastery.

Contrary to the name, the Nocturnal Versifier was either wept, frustrated, or itched into existence by day, close to the all-pervading golden rays of one late afternoon. And if I am honest, I had never thought I would create such a platform to have my words readily available anywhere in the globe, just as I never thought such a thing would be spawned and erected upon the corpse of a family member.

Cheers to my aunt for the lugubrious inspiration! She opened the door for a more engaged poetic expression. Even though I may distrust her incorporeal representation, it should be known to her and to all that I am grateful.

I never knew my aunt favoured any song in specific, just that she adored everything Chayanne related; therefore, I leave here a song to her honour and memory.

Revival of Old Minstrels

Image by Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay

Callous angel –

tears made dry –

nourished by the blood

of the children of dawn,

slaves are the portrait

before eagle eyes.

~*~

Evil angel –

walking night –

scales of steel

narrate the path alight

under the marching moon

which conquers the veiling

of torched fireflies.

~*~

Hellish angel –

laughter mad –

spring is the cradle

of rainbow pastimes,

a will o’ the wisp –

a theatre of mirrors

and misty hearts.

~*~

Sovereign angel –

versed in poise

razor-sharp –

enframing the sequence

of eldritch chorale,

hey ho the blade,

the rust and the scent!

Myriad voices

scream in pain,

yet no wave pierces

the simpering

of the pitiless.

Architect of Peace

Image by skeeze from Pixabay

Be ever mindful of your speech.

All you say and allow in – even music – acts as a spell upon your being, and not all influence is there to benefit.

Quiet the mind, and learn to listen.

Take control of yourself, and be the master creator you were born to be.

Fear is an illusion.

Despise it and rise above it.

Transmute it into courage.