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

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.

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.

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.

Rainbows Collide

How many times

will the calm tumultuous breath

heap the sparkling tales

into the no-mouth of origin?

From extremity to extremity –

a sigh, a sainted emnity.

The liquid gold of form orchestrates

before the shifter joyfully,

yet it is all the same

in the womb of potentiality.

A right turn is a left turn,

and a left turn a right one;

for all is reconciled

past the soap bubble of the child

who rose and dreamt the fragments of his core.

O dearest acrobat of prickled love!

Thumos ran away,

and eros is beating himself into a pulp.

The rope is the quicksand of delusion,

and the rings blaze with dry ice instead of fire.

Mistress of Good Malevolence

Image by ARLOUK from Pixabay

The Muse of Melancholic Fumes

uprooted the glass which incised the eye,

and with decorous hand,

escorted me back to the desert of impious minds.

I breathed in the sunlit sands with insurgent contempt

as the gentle Logos whispered tears of vigor worth to preserve.

My heartbeats raised in sickening waves

upon witnessing the mortification of inculcation

in the currents of fresh water unable to retaliate.

I ached and grieved from the shade of my parasol,

and longed for the maiden whose amphorae made the world flow.

Yet the star did not shine upon the barren land,

and I wondered who appointed the comatose to the front lines.

Kaheri’s Labyrinth (Final Realization)

Image by Dimitris Vetsikas from Pixabay
https://pixabay.com/photos/heart-of-stone-stone-heart-love-2079452/

This forced trip bestowed unto me something I much required. I remembered compassion. I remembered patience. I told my brother in the essence of Casiano so on the way to the airport during the hours of the early morning. The entity admitted quietly that I had witnessed human emotion. This stone heart of mine had been transmuted during those thirteen days post our troubled beloved’s death. I bonded with children and met a marvellous lady with whom I held conversations of the like I, myself, and otherwise had been deprived of for a long time as genuity is a pillar to her essence, and she was my joy within the turmoil of my caged kismen. (Thank you, Isleidys).

Upon stepping on Cuban soil, I felt myself transforming. Somehow I did not fully register my return to the land which birthed me; a rush, a growing restlessness possessed me as I walked to the aduana. In this misplacement, I was anew connected. I took this voyage as a challenge for self-improvement, and I took Urizen with me.

I adapted to the dealing of the old ways quickly. By the end, I knew once more how it feels to be empathetic. I opened myself to the lives of my human bloodline, and as a consequence, I was more human myself.

Departure came by the hand of uneasiness. It was time to leave my loved ones behind again. I boarded the plane, and became disgusted with all again. The essence of my surroundings, the shallowness, the immaturity stripped me of the warmth recalled.

Waiting in line after my relative’s documents could not be processed by the automatic machine, I saw people as cattle sheep. The picture of a hoard formed easily in my mind. I detested them. They were the living dead, walking still to another death. Thereafter, I listened to a mother talk to her child, and how the child so beautifully and reasonably answered her. I was charmed to be made witness so soon to an eloquent and heartful interaction. I smiled internally as I felt myself rising from the swallowing mouth of reversed light. Mother and child were a reminder of the recalled connection, and I grew more tolerant. I felt gratitude and moved along in line.