Lucid Frog

Footsteps have trodden through avenues sundry. And by the carefully nurtured flame where the master’s trail has fallen, I often wonder why life’s elixir rides on the centaur’s toxin.

The Pale Lover

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

Winter is here. Saturn strokes his beard, and the sages retreat into their caves to ponder upon the mysteries of death. The crows outside enliven the deafening silence, yet fall quiet with the same swiftness they took to their cawing.

In the cold breast of the sickle bearer, the dim grey world evokes an eldritch romance which human words stumble and fail to tongue. But buried in promising old tomes, I find the next stage for my atrocious play – a beauty which forlorn, a wisdom which is dreaded.

Legacy of the Grotesque

The wind-beaten lake was beset by offshore storms of confounded and weeping veils. In the midst of the tempest, awareness rose enraged to calm the waters, and the mirror-like lake became a reflection of an alternate state. All knights gathered under one plate, one flag, one creed to sustain: one-pointed laser stare beyond the conceivable extent; thus, the voice was the wordless wordly observant who severed the umbilical cord of the pre-conceptual which sat in the cave of his own reflection to execute the ways of consolidation.

The Other Eye and the Silent Scream

The crepuscular light daily sets the stage for a new pilgrimage past the mouth of Abyss into the throne of a Black Sun, which abrasive sublime rays sear away the confusion of the day; although it may as well strip the heart off desire bent after object and natural course and edge. Here in the darkness does reason bathe in purity, and conviction’s resolve illuminates the beclouded use of breath and focused target.

Donning the crown of the depths, there is no escape from the timeless folly. The frolic of pretence enrobes and weds the conscious insanity, and the tarred alchemical tears are, each one, a perforating spear from the pilgrim’s reflective pool of inanity.

Dawn is the archetypal succour for the children of the golden orb, whilst in its embrace the offspring of chimerical antics run erratic, in pain writhing, under the blistering light of consensual literacy.

Blood-Month Hypnosis

Crystal mirror and moonlight dim.

Aetherial arms of rusty metal

draped in delicate fantasy.

Like nebulous blades of strings,

its concert casts the will of the puppeteer.

The beasts roam between sleep and lucidity,

yet the colossus still chases the mirage of unreality.

You will hear his screams echo in the wind,

but his ravings are speared in the wall of subtlety.

The eyes that see stare entranced at the infinite,

and thoughts flee from the chamber of wordly lunacy.

“I once was human”, a voice rustles in

from the backdrop of the scenery,

“yet I died in the pyre of my own scavenging”.

“Does it hurt?”, the undines peep out their heads

from the night pond curiously; “Do you weep?”

The voice retreats.

Silence falls on autumn’s lips,

yet the sentient architect knows

the possible impossibility.

Sandalwood, myrrh, and peppermint

outline the edges of myriad realms –

so apart, yet scarcely distant.

Above two poles of shipwrecked mariners

broken against the rocks of lawful quietness,

sits enthroned the lord of madness.

His eyes burn lapis lazulized,

and his domain is the reflection

of his inventive sacredness

still rubified.

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.

Umbra & the First General of the Cavalry: Nude Before the Monarch (V)

Image by Willgard Krause from Pixabay

Monarch: Logos is knocked cold.

Umbra: I know, and you know that should not be a surprise. Equip him to our needs, and send him back to me.

Monarch: You have a question for me; I can see it even when you avert your eyes from mine.

Umbra: The question is half the question; for it, in itself, is an answer. For long, I have tormented myself with the possible why’s: Why would you send me forth every breath upon this world? Why do you insist that the labour does persist? I know now that those questions have an answer, which was already bestowed unto me past the maelstrom of tears and lacerating spears which by measure of true nurture launched to spike Élan out of the entombed barren bosom of dead’s play yard. No, those questions were answered; albeit, for them, you had me bleed rivers of blue bile. The question is not that which I do not know, but that which I know and find most vomitous and abhorrent. The question is the skilful dancer of awe-striking silken laceful fire who grins and frolics with expeditious comportment, bearing amphorae of lugubrious water to sober the lawful drunken. The question is the recognition of barbarous endeavour upon strings harrowing out of tune. The question is not an interrogative, but a ceaselessly screaming hostage whose sensuous hunger starves at the banquet of tellurian betrothment; for, alas, you saved me and condemned me to wander and wonder. The question is rightfully what is it that I wilfully sacrifice upon the altar of illusion and phantom womb as I race evermore upon freedom’s path and open skies, maintaining the balance of all elements at once. The question is a heartful confession of deep-rooted hatred and disrelish, which, at times, finds the will to subside to let me enjoy the simple pleasures. You extended me from your being with all the unlocking keys one may fancy and require, yet entrusted me to open the ashen, pale, and tenuous archways with the growing seed of primordial hankering. For much, I am forever grateful; however, it would be foolish and neglectful to deny that the question irks and pains me with tenacious transpiercing and ancient venom. And although the freely gifted and surreptitiously taxed embrace of martyrdom repudiates me as I do it, fruition and gratification do I extract from waging the infernal war.

Image by Mystic Art Design from Pixabay

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

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.

Beads of Transcendence

Image by Janet Herman from Pixabay

The pale blue seeps

through the blinds,

beckoning me to dance

and perfume myself

with the tears of dawn.

Oh, how they shine

with the wistfulness of youth

and potential life!

How tender their visage,

and sensuous their cry,

conjuring mirabilia

upon the world entranced!

And thus, I laud

a sight so bright,

honouring grace at heart –

a core of oceanic tides.

My willows follow

the smiling breeze

of early morning’s wet kiss.

My eaves drip

salted sacraments

of hidden beauty.

Splinter and Soul: IV

Once Upon a Whimsy Sway

Image by mcbeaner from Pixabay

In my childhood midnight fancies, many a time I ventured out into the darkness when my household slept soundly. Barefoot upon the cold sand of a beloved shoreline, I used to dance entranced to the ghostly moonlight as each rustling wave gradually stole me away from the family’s farmhouse into the mysteries of my tender age.  

It was thus how I found her – sickly, unsettling, and unsuspectedly enthralling. The weeper of the bleeding wound emitted no sound, yet her tears flowed as burning screams down her dismal deep blood eyes. By manner of vesture, this almost tangible specter bore the seeming of grace deposed with the tattered blues of a royal born. With arms spread to the sides as she knelt semi-buried in the sand, the very flow of life trickled from her open back.  

—Are you lost? —Transfixed in quiet wretchedness, this ethereal sufferer bade no answer still. Tip-toeing around the blood ring, I stopped to look at the injury.  The stench of burnt skin and remnants of raven feathers suffocated my senses as they held threshold for a large clean and beating cut. A sticky and moist sorrow extended through my limbs, gripping my chest as though her pain pertained to me. In an impulse, I stretched my arm to touch the woman’s back, yet the wind blew furiously, and dreary clouds hung above our heads heralding the end of quiescence’s reign.  

—Love’s the sepulture of hearts! — The ghost shrieked, bolting from the sand as she cast the mask of despondency upon my young eyes.  Her icy clawed hands seized my neck and held me high above her shoulders, where the air grew heavy and her jet-black hair swayed defying the gravity of the Earth.  

By virtue of my struggle to breathe, the woman let me on my feet with a blank stare and held me to her bosom with increasing capacity.  My body wept and whined as the enfolding into such a touch seared my insides; for as the spectre sank her claws into my back, the words she bespoke were the tombstone of secular dazzling and the onset of a skeleton garden, “The key to lunacy is bound by thirteen plus seven divided by two”.  

          The utterance of the crushing composition proved to be somewhat of a relief to the grieving phantom, yet the opposite for me; for the figure demorphed into a goo which oozed itself in through my pores, and since that night, I dwelt close yet far away from home. 

Splinter and Soul: III

My being had sought to wander, yet fought to remain quiescent in the heart of the primeval darkness. The tarry streams no longer hummed under my feet, and had not done so since egression sew its seed amidst my thoughts.

In the absence of up, down, right, and left, the pandimensional paths all led one way: nowhere. Strolling about rendered the same achievement as did curling up in place awaiting something to take effect.

Seldom did the uneasiness persuade the apparitions to reveal themselves; for it was this urge aflame which welcomed the perverse pleasure of watching someone writhe and crawl within himself.

What a predicament did the berserker sustain! To possess the drive to triumph, yet being grounded to the opposite polarity to rise atop for a glimpse of hope in this puzzle of timeless void.

Resting seated here, the crude and lively anal glands of night delivered its offspring of stifling smoke inside my lungs. I fumbled my chest, clawing at the skin as if I could cast it out of me whilst flashes of shorelines danced before me in a frenzy.