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.
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.
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.
“O Harbinger of Death!
Thou who guisest in wise warm and red,
give ear to my supplications and cast not aside this faithful servitor.
Rise, Lady of Demise!
Thine is the scepter of will razor-sharp.
Thy love be manifest through the veins of wintry light,
thy fatal kiss a seal upon the forehead of this renegade
abhorring the despotic Nightmare White.
Rise, my Muse of War Delight!
Sing me a lullaby, and dispel the sway of the counterpart
that I may be made witness to the gnosis of the night.”
Dame Esurience bore through the flames of the fireplace, staining the floor with tar.
She sat by the windowsill as she punctured her skin with a silver needle and shrieked.
In the wake of her displeasure, Lady Rave convulsed her way out of her vessel.
“Needst thou disturb my rest?”
Shadows of non-pretense stacked behind the sleeper –
the conjuring of wrath past the starless ancient prison.
“Canst thou hear the cries of thy breed?
The seedling of thy deeds invokes the parentage of sublime conquering.”
Dame Esurience left the window in a whim
and danced upon the obscenity her visit had begotten.
“Quintessential beast of blackness unforgotten,
new blood reaches out for torment.”
“Cease, foul thing of human conscience!” Lady Rave snarled
with might of self-belonging.
“Leave this cave of wonders undiscovered and my justice yet unbroken.
Leave my cave of cosmic pathways.
Return to the master who thee gaveth breath and order.”
Star-dust, madness, fire!
Of being blinded I am tired!
Primeval Darkness, interlace my spirit and body.
Venerated home, engulf me with power.
Mother of Relentless Sempiternity – my pride, my bloodline –
claim me as yours as I thee pronounce mine.
Our union shall prevail for all time.
“Fool!” cried the viper of warfare
by fire, revenge, and mist of sway –
fury, madness, and eager to pain.
Thou hast invoked about the end.
Vera riseth to this place –
the titaness, the peerless grace.
Hers is a side where no soul findeth rest.
Thou hast chosen putrefaction
to polish the black diamond of the depths.
The scales weigh above thy head.
Truth will be the death of thy mortal shell.”
Noble violin, take me on your strings
and gallop beyond the wind
of the tall grass and wheat fields.
In mornings like these,
your tears are honey drops
from the eaves of heartache.
dance with me the waltz of sadness.
In shadows like these,
your manuscript bittersweet
announces the funeral of vision dazzled.
Take me home,
where the Castle of Night holds the crown of soul.
Take me home,
where I know I’m the silence between my thoughts.
Softly, you creep into my skin.
The euphoria of an abandoned wish
is the scent you torment me with
as I look into your eyes and see myself
staring back through the mass of tar and intimate regard.
I see you dance upon the carcass of time with merry remarks
ere you whisper in my ears that you’re mine by decree of bloodline.
My spirit hums at the presence of your touch;
still, as I let myself descend through your tunneling caress,
I flee from your embrace whilst my shell tears apart;
for the start of a feverish wont sunrise licks my wounds
to have me bleed and quench the subtle brute athirst
with the passion of a hound.
You yell out my name frenzied and crowned.
I turn my back and feel my tears abound.
With every step I take, away from your domain, I pray for your forgiveness
as I daydream of a time
when you and I will walk side by side.
For now, suffer me to depart.
I will return to you
when the primeval spring meets the secular in art.
The union of scorching hands will be the bridge
for our longing hearts.
You and I will be one
by decree of bloodline and ardor sublime.
In the breeze lies no breath
for which I extend my grip and forbear my weeping.
In every garden a pricking thorn
for every poignant rose worth keeping.
The tides wash over the sands of my soul –
wax me stagnant,
gorgonize me on the spot,
tease the ground so tarnished with the white execrable.
Erewhile it had not mattered,
but the name of her burst forth of every mouth
in the hopes the prayers were answered.
They knew not their saviour laid breathless and disarranged
at the bottom of the old stone well amidst the town square,
that I bled her to death with a pen to quench my thirst,
to spare myself of beholding her face.
Clouds had not ere brought about the darkness,
and pouring ceased not thereafter.
The sun had fallen into the land of the forgotten,
and in her stead a young black star was lauded.
The sun never tarnished, if you ever wonder.
The sun alone perished without warning.
Feather feet tickle the blackened reflection of forgotten regions.
The fathomless mirror weeps with tears of oblivion
as the mystic voice of some divine creature denudes with tender touch
the skin seared in the truce of sweet perdition.
Silken vocals wrought from the salt of reasonless reason
declare war against the bearer of gentle breeze and warmth of spring
that if the bosom dare be tranquil still,
thorns of nightshade and opium dreams will unearth the graves of youth-besotted shards
beclothed by the deranged pure minds of the sheltering lamps
in a world of dark delight.