Oracle of Sullen Reverie

Murmurs in the daytime speck,

kaleidoscopes and swirling strings of otherness

summoning the rising of the abeyant armies

through the yearning veils into the chamber

of nestling consciousness.

~*~

Murmurs in the air,

spectacles of colours and silhouettes

dancing ‘fore the heart whose river has run

into the high seas with nothing more

than the tearing love for the Black Star

which underlies the theatre’s spotlight.

~*~

Murmurs murmuring ever

the disavowal of tales oozed from opiate crevices

of malison and true derangement.

Murmurs of the innate throne

which hand pries open the torture room of sol.

Murmurs, quiet memories of dusk –

the revelry of Soul bleeding art

into the listless ball of fleshy command.

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. 

Incision of Dusk Kissed Escapades

Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay

“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.”

Ameles Potamus (Existence is her Sin)

Curse the nepenthe of thy balmy lips and goblet bittersweet.

Thy promises repulse me as do all sugary nothings.

Indolent thou flowest through the cavern of sleep,

and I cavort and carouse in my musings of befouling thee.

Wretched! Blasphemous!

Assassin of all triumph that has ever come to be!

Thee I exile by the very word

which breathed thee absurd and serene!

I deny thy power in the stretching sails

of a soul and songbird by art of ravenous will,

and dethrone the silent terror of the aeons at thy feet.

Grace my ears with the canticle of thy dead screams

as I hail with pandimensional fury

to the rise of Mnemosyne!

Echoing Key

The wind stretches the sails of remnants indelible,

a memory that resounds

across the anteroom of vaulted Darkness

which very blackness the chasm made light to defile

the awake slumbering of the quilted lamps.

And the question still stands,

Is it a memory

or a vague dream toiling its way to life?

Umbra & the First General of the Cavalry – Imperial Ball (III)

Umbra: Logos! Come and dance with us.

Logos: I am fine, thank you.

Core: Oh, come on! I’ll teach you some moves.

*silence*

Logos: Umbra, is she staying long?

Umbra: Core is part of our family. She’ll stay forever with us.

*silence*

Umbra: What’s wrong? You need Core for a balanced forefront. The army needs you both.

Logos: I know… but she’s so *looks at Core who in turn looks at him glistening with joy* moist… and sweet.

Core: *bursts into laughter* I know, right! Everything that you are not. We’ll make such a great team.

Logos: *grits his teeth as he glares at Umbra* So, Core… uhm… what are those moves you wanted to teach me?

Umbra: *giggles and pats Logos’ shoulder* Good general, good general.

Exhumation of the Forgotten

“Oh, good grief! How you do stand the-“

“Shh. Shut up and swing about.”

~*~

In passing of breathing pain –

a seldom voiced weight –

what prevents the difference

from crawling up a wall

and sainting the rib

into the murals of history?

In behest of tantalizing,

how does the blurry,

little drawing pecker itself

into a cubicle of still pretense?

That bastard!

That animal of mortal sense

running around against itself!

Emptiness that feels

Give me the antidote

for this poison I abhorred and learnt to ignore.

Give the antidote that shedding vessels denies to the core.

I never wished to drink from the bitter river

which divests the Dark Dreamer

from the revelations of existence.

How can a heart suffer in absence of pain?

Her face – branded, paralyzed, and pale.

The mirror she held as life said farewell.

The death of the innocent.

It is all emptiness, yet I cascade!

I cascade with the grief of a foreign sentiment.

Forgive me, Your Majesty;

for thou didst meet thy end,

and no mercy caressed thee

‘fore the tearing of the flesh.

Thou took’st thy leave in blasphemy,

and truth remained unseen

amidst the lines of neglected poetry.

And truth was buried still…

destroying images of me.

~*~

I am sorry.

Wound from the Cold Torch

Image by emsalgado from Pixabay

Wail the winter of thy harvest.

Forbear to sacrifice the sun to the hoarfrost;

for the river ran its course with the autumn laws.

Bleed upon the tombstone of thy own core.

Withhold thy kiss from the lips of loss,

and thus thy hands from the sepulcher of love.

Return to the void whence thou crawled’st,

and with thee take the subjugating chains of conscience.

Illusionist and woe of serpentine discordance,

be exiled to the gutter of the fallen!

Remember what was to thee promised:

there is no life for thy venomed calling.