The Gift of Self

Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay

It is only the prerogative of an enslaved consciousness to deem the truth apocryphal. Nothing bears meaning except for that which we attribute to it. And with no escape from influence, our consolation rests in erecting a fortress of all which is supportive of our true selves; thus, being armed enough to relentlessly wage war against that which does not serve our purpose, or perish in the crossfire. The outcome of the struggle will be greatly contingent on one’s own desire to be free.

Pearl of Sane Madness

Image by Rujhan Basir from Pixabay

In the night’s Plutonian rendition

of water warm and subtle might,

the Silver Lady of the Sky

didst away the ghosts

of past thoughts and spider-webs

of human bejewelled lore.

She soaked herself

in through the guise

of noon gold and rainbow cross,

and oozed from every pore

to purify the pools

with the reflection of Soul.

And I knew, and she bespoke,

“Carouse in the essence

of sweet and tender storm,

and leave no cemetery unturnt

that thou may’st draw deeper

into the mysteries openly veiled

without being swayed

by the dozen semblances

which I have bore

froms drops to streams of frailty

which bedrock is the will

to stand strong.

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.

Tenfold Swordplay

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

If foreign to the essence of the lover proves to be the hand that sews and closes the old skin that shudders; if by requisite of the tearing muse should come the ruse of the bittersweet hook which survives the age of consciousness; the blooded linen shall take after the viper, and redeem the unseen from the lust of heartbreak.

Adjacent Lens of Strange Intercourse

Image taken from Pixabay

Somewhere amidst these cubicles, the mind has thought to bemuse itself with the sole indulgence of being.

The flower garden trickles from the eaves of a long forgotten rain sit as the frozen dry buds slowly smile to greet the sun.

Out the window, the swaying branches invite the wonder of late spring, and for the first time, its brightness is a gift.

Here, sheltered by the unknown pages of the library, blossoms life where many had walked putrified.