We of the Weeping Bloodlet

Divided we stand in the sight of a frozen sun, salivating for the wine that would assuage our inner draught only to beset ourselves with the oozing bile of desert forests and pregnant voidness.

You are not empty who feels neither world nor fellow creature sentient, who neither sees the road nor heeds primal urge line-up. You are not undone who by strain and drunk melancholy spouses your pain into caves of clanship blindness.

Do not think, but feel again the wordless voice drowned in waves of taught heartache. You are a treasury of inconmensurable power waiting to be fertilised by rightful seed and rain-falling.

If you are unsatisfied, and thereby crawling through the sewers of hopelessness, I dare say you need just wait for the burning stellar blaze which with sweetness buzzes in every cell. On that day, my dear bud, you will have come closer to yourself than all those years of nescient judgement under unawareness and preconceived notions of life and the self.

And in parting words I say, “Value yourself!”; for there is no other like you, and it would be a shame to see you fade away locked up in the mutable illusions we have come to accept.

May you find a reason to smile this new year.

Sincerely,

Alyona

Amidst Old Tomes, in Subtle Heartbeats

Listen to the imperious whisper forlorn,

crawling out the caskets of human ways age-worn.

Green lanthorns and ghost night

breathe out the briny breeze of archaic shores.

And in this Yuletide of watchful note,

curious feet walk in between

with itch, with love,

for the longing idyllic horror

of secrets most immemorial

and brilliant hope.

Sol Noctis – Primordial Passion

Image by Rondell Melling from Pixabay
Music from Pixabay

Cry craven, you unfortunate sot of ghost semblance!

Give yourself to me in my melodic lunacy;

for I am Darkness of Origin,

and all the shadows in between.

.

Cry craven, you lily-livered caitiff!

Scald yourself for all your aeons at my feet;

for I am Spearing Light of Genesis,

and all the dawnings in between.

~*~

In clear skies and dry seasons,

mine ears be blest still

with Cyclopean weeping beads

where breath is tenuous,

and mind be indulged with dreams.

One eyed trickling in the wind of late silence

to the awakening film:

an echoing whisper and restless memory

of Furor Divinus calling beasts

to feats and banquets of love and evol.

.

Furor Divinus, the forest dance of atavism.

Furor Divinus, the disavowal of masks

held by public favouritism.

Furor Divinus, the thrusting horses of Abyss.

Furor Divinus, exalted bile screams of Dame Melancholy.

Timeless

Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay

In hours of soul night passing,

breathe in the venom of the deep dark waters

to change weakness into strength, vacuity into sentiment;

that no being may ever say your power you did neglect.

Rise, warrior of the eternal well!

The verdant fields sing with upmost praise.

Lift your sword and raise your shield.

Battle forward to keep your freedom.

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.

Cuando Llueve de Anta├▒o (Spanish Collection)

Image by Anja­čĄŚ#helpinghands #solidarity#stays healthy­čÖĆ from Pixabay

¡Simiente del oscuro tutelaje, abogante transcendente;

t├║, que inadvertida izas sombras en los pantanos de la gente; t├║!

Simiente del exilio intransigente del olvido y la inconsciencia,

desciende del trono negro de la verdad plena

y consagra mi presencia con tu mano guerrera.

Hoguera del sagrado árbol nocturno, ubicua numinosa,

despoja los rasgos de la esclavitud rec├│ndita

para que el cadáver viviente en los jardines del fulgor inverso

se arranque los huesos y reclame su imperio

m├ís all├í del p├ęndulo mordaz de los dioses durmientes.

Vining of Sore Eyes Past Hours of Mortal Chores

“You can sleep”, common sense has it out for me. As if I was unaware of the various plays I inflict upon myself!

“I know”, I lay back as I wait for a follow up which does not come. It knows that I know that it knows there is no definite reason as to why any creature would choose to inflame the fires in the pits of impious thoughts.

Ever since I filled the air with smoke for the hissing tongued man in ragged green-grey clothes, the world became a maze-like box. These walls are not as solid as they seem, I know. And the man must know that I know and will continue to find more nuances in the days to come.

Blessed be the fiend who hosts the venom of newfound hope! Let him work miracles if his name glistens in manners most favourable.

“Again, you can sleep,” common sense returns with visions of enticing shores.

“I would tell you to shut up, but I like you too much”, I sigh as I try to recall where I last saw my socks, “Twenty-four hours are not enough for all the hellish crevices I wish to explore”.