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.
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
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.
Does your rib not bleed
upon the evil thought and deed
which perforates the tender skin
like a dagger of steel,
and sows its poison seed?
Does the willful sap
in ancient memory and current plea
frolic still in the garden of sleep
with blindfolds of faux amaranthe?
In meadows of lemongrass and chamomile,
in the imperious dome of make-belief
does the pendulum swing
at the mercy of the subtle winds.
And it is this, the giant of multifarious grieving,
which by percipient means stabs himself
and wonders why his pain is ceaseless,
and which by dulled eyes and hope
embraces the tango of the infinitely lost
to drown the torch which brings about
the reconciliation of all the ailments superimposed.
Dare you savour the rain, the salted thunderstorm
from the still waters of the midnight lake?
Would you waltz past the terrain of creation’s sparkling rave,
and sample the sorrow of a dreamer in the arms of nothingness?
You! What do you know about yourself
save the crumbs which herald the labour of your grave?
Would you laugh and praise the years of inherited nonsense,
or frolic insane to the Void womb of spheres twain?
Rain, the eternal autumn of the incising lens.
All life within a dream of a dreaming nullity which rests.
And it is this, this fractal light, this temporal chiming bell
which weeps and pains; for its very nature it cannot consign
to the embrace of the Genderless Mother
whose silence grieves and puzzles
even those of infernal descent.
“You are one to abhor attachments that, like chains, hold you to an immutable terrain of flesh-eating corpses, yet by contradiction of your modus operandi, you launch against the Maiden of Oblivion with stark acrimony.”
“I see that being left alone with me has set your talents free. Do you enjoy what you see? Let all who have eyes to see and all ears to hear how all difference and manners come to be. Yes, I abhor her whose promise is weak, as I do loathe the haze of dormancy, yet that hardly makes me a hypocrite. You see, in my centuries alive, I have never measured progress through the eclipse and dearth of consciousness. I am the mindful memory who propels forward with sentient step, crafting jewels out of events that nothing may go to waste. I accept my responsibility toward myself, and erect pillars of serving grace. I forgo surrendering war to the deceitful bliss of forgetfulness, and embrace the shadows born from my ancient crevices.”