Ode to Blackness in Red

Image by Alyona Uramuru

Icy rings

As wreaths gleam

‘Round the waist of him,

The Dreaded and Sublime King.

What joy it is to peer

Into eyes of coal

As mirror-lake

Of soulful tale

In divine lore,

In truthful hope.

What boon it is to sing

The sagas of the warriors’ spleen

Wrought into halls of conquest

By iron art,

By lead and fire.

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.

No More

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

Sky-lit serene

This eve doth sweep

My bosom clean.

In the alcove antique

Betwixt seen and unuttered,

Obsolesce the face of longing;

For the driving principle of becoming

The world teareth asunder –

In unmerciful carnage,

In unhinged disowning.

Sky-lit serene

Here toll the bells

Of truthful clawing.

Dark pit and primal donning

Ritualize the ways of knowing,

And the enslavement of the dove’s feet

Doth cry in rightful crowing

For the aberrant undaunted.

Sky-lit serene

This eve doth sweep

My bosom clean.

Sky-lit awoken

The nightmare steed

Wildly runneth –

Its mane is the flag

of crowning,

Its eyes are of

Daemon

growling.

The Price of What You Want

Image by Harry Strauss from Pixabay

The price of what you want is not a price because a price does not exist.

The price of you want is merely a self-transformation for you to flourish into the greatest that you can be. And once you know what you want, you will never be able to return to where you were before you knew.

The price of what you want is to dare to be yourself unapologetically.

The price of what you want is to realize that, even in all as one, you are an individual of upmost particular value to yourself.

The price of what you want is the bravery of letting go of old detrimental patterns of thought, emotion, behaviour, and connections, shouting and bleeding, “I’ve had enough!!”, and revolutionize your ways to see yourself prosper.

The price of what you want is the courage to trample fear and look straight into the pitch black unknown unfazed.

So, come what may!

The price of what you want is your liberation from all you have ever deigned to complain about. You kindle your circumstances by way of your own reactive methods.

The price of what you want is to remember yourself.

Enough of empty words!

Enough of fleeting fantasies!

Know yourself, and see what you want fulfilled!!

To Quell Bananas in Cuckoo-Store

~ No picture! Nothing would ever represent it. ~

Methought to amuse the unthinkable,

to run after the trace of All that is and naught

just to race like a wild horse in circles of tail-tale,

and become bemused - more still desertly mad

in the uneasiness of human mind frenzied!

For realities merge, crash, and detach 'fore our eyes -

ever real, but always mythical.

A twin of water weeps as it rejoices 

at the majesty of the phenomenon.

Deep within, all the fleshly suited renters

thirst for the goblet which will never quench

the full abstract desire.

Umbra & the First General of the Cavalry: Enunciation at the Monarch’s Hall (IV)

Logos: When madness bestroke the already insane decaying gardens of the sleeping gods, Umbra wept with joy and forethought for that which she most sought: self-discovery, pure and uninterrupted destruction and salvage of self to revel in the flame at the core of herself. The unprecedented perils of the journey warned ere bestriding full force past the gate of no return; however, no forewarning and no distress can prevent a burning soul from seeking out and communing with the truth of itself. No illusion or carnal tale holds power compelling enough to ensorcel determination with provisions of naught.  No pain, no fear, and no insidious nefarious discipline can overshadow the eternal call of freedom. Beknownst to the irreparable damage that would be wrought upon the narrative of the corrosive necropolis, Umbra raced past the known fences of self-containing brittleness into the remote and nameless lands beyond. The hidden wisdom of the sinister obelisks forlorn, in quiet yet self-serving unrest, brought peace to the mind whose vows bespoke all the uncustomary tongues of evil: enthroning dark love shunned by demands of irrational and deceitful corporeality concoction. Having tasted the poison of the depths, there was neither place nor desire for a golden cage. The familiar errands of the sickly nursed were of a derision and disrespect to all the potential marooned or fading away. And it was thus how the rebel yell was breathed and maintained,

“Sovereignty or death!”.

Image by Mark Frost from Pixabay

Littered Walking Corpses

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.

Trick the Trickster Trickier

Image by Roland Nikrandt from Pixabay

It is undoubtedly there, amidst the crawling shadows creeping through the maze of what we call our minds, that we truly find the most valuable treasures.

I pushed myself through the feeling of indolence immediately after waking up and recording my dreams; thus, abandoning my bed and engaging in all immediate rituals of self-care, eating something, doing the dishes, and brushing my teeth last. All of this without allowing myself to complain or formulate excuses and muse about distractions.

I realized two things today:

  1. Indolence will always be there, and it is my responsibility toward myself to rise and conquer it every single day through awareness, will, and vision.
  2. As I washed the dishes, I plunged into my head, observed, and interacted with it on regards to my dreams today and to myself with the conscious push I exerted. Looking to my left and reading the label on the honey bottle, I realized that it meant nothing to me. Even the word “honey” was empty. Like this, I became conscious of the secret to self-control and discipline (quite note: control is not punishment/depravation, but management) on regards to food consumption, any action, or any aspect of social conditioning.
  • Resistance only begets compulsive surrender. It is when things such as labels and actions mean nothing that we truly observe, that all temptations are rendered powerless. When everything means nothing, then do we consciously decide what to do next. There is an absence for the need to react because the stimuli mean nothing, and we are set on a vision we have made for ourselves.

~*~

This last part places me, however, in a spot where I must pen a side effect to my own processes and deductions. And that is an insidious feeling of rebelling against the insight/knowledge/wisdom acquired when thinking about it or attempting to teach it to other people and see how it can help, a feeling which strangely translates to resistance and compulsive surrender. This insubordinate is nothing more than a childish saboteur, a remnant of some subconscious programming that indulges in hoarding all effort and revelation because it somehow has made it seem that sharing tips was the way of losing them.

Well, let today be the day in which I take this saboteur to the guillotine!

I want to watch its head roll off, and behold the execution platform be bathed in its blood!!

Florescencia (Translated – Spanish Collection)

Burdas luciérnagas sin piel trazaron el camino

de vuelta hacia la morada del ojo empírico

que supervisa todos los lazos del pasado, presente, y futuro por igual.

Es la florescencia –

la consciencia y sensibilidad que se arremolina

inmutable a los chillidos mortales

que elevan pilares de auto-adversidad.

~*~

En la brisa yace el soplo de la sabiduría de la antigüedad.

En la brisa yace la respuesta a toda pregunta en honestidad.

Es la florescencia –

el vínculo sutil de la claridad balsámica

y el colector de la moneda en ligamentos de alquimia.

“¡La libertad es el modo y el camino!”,

arrancó de mi pecho y garganta,

ya que si los sentidos obedecieran solo un deseo,

serían exiliados más allá de los portales de la creatividad.

~*~

Burdas luciérnagas sin piel adornaron la corona de la noche

desde la cuna hasta el cenit,

observando las extrañas formas luminosas en la oscuridad.

Fue la florescencia –

el aliado de cristal que juzgó a los espejos gemelos

con el juicio de no ser paralelos para embarcar

en el viaje a través de las tierras impías de la llama infernal.

Love’s Flatline

Image by Karolina Grabowska from Pixabay

Science cannot explain

the transient rising of the blood wave,

or heartbeat knives as cyanide

taking turns to carve their signature

in soul stone at the sun’s maiden rays.

It was the fluorescence.

It was the song of consciousness –

silken, madness and reverie-begotten.

It was the heart beyond the thresholds of haze

and the creed of the adrift and forgotten.

It was the dual scaled, mercurial, and golden threads

in amphorae that pour the light which shadows shrieked to consolidate.

And science cannot explain the keys bronzed by the path foreseen

in the soil from which branches the willow tree.

Florescence

Image by Lee_seonghak from Pixabay

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.

Hillbound Burns

Refuse now thou to bedrink this nepenthe;

for the goblets have not been shared equally;

for the breach which enshrines the gradual antipathy

cannot be quelled with silent screams

and musings of lucid reveries.

Nay!

Refuse now thou to drown this holy shadow.

O Madam Mine of Chronic Harrow!

Suffer not the nerve of the brazen maggot.

The abbot doeth not eat carrots,

and thou, queenly void of vast crown,

be sure not scarce to call out the pyre

which thy soul enshrouds.

Thus, the python uncoiled from the liminal cradle,

and kinship brought no solace to the heart

whose dialogue spits jewels of rotten marrow.

The Fruits of the Sickle Bearer

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

The marvel of an overlooked perception dazzled me. I feel that the Great Harvester tested the lesson on patience on me as I ventured about my day; albeit it is because I can be patient that I can gain insight into my surroundings and myself. My trajectory today led me to a hospital, and for various reasons, I was set to wait; however, my time was far from wasted.

Besides being bombarded by the usual everyday din and the unwavering restlessness of people, I found myself surprised when I realized that I could not summon into mind any day in the past few years and even further back when I found such an amount of elder folk in one place. The hospital’s entrance brimmed with knowledge and experience in withering vessels.

From the elderly, only one pale and short lady on a walker smiled with the same spark as would a child. The rest were torn and beaten, dwelling in severe semblances and pools of judgement

There was a black lady in particular who carried herself as if her strength would forsake her at any moment. She sat in a corner, far away in thought with eyes of glass. Such illuminating sight! This woman, this vast repertoire of art – her pain was of a beauty phenomenal. She glowed with the starriness of an abyssal sky, the many points of light reflecting through the deep waters of life. She dwelt in a beauty of another kind, yet she may never realize the charm.