Free from illusions with raw natural power of concentration and creativity, what would you accomplish?
This eve doth sweep
My bosom clean.
In the alcove antique
Betwixt seen and unuttered,
Obsolesce the face of longing;
For the driving principle of becoming
The world teareth asunder –
In unmerciful carnage,
In unhinged disowning.
Here toll the bells
Of truthful clawing.
Dark pit and primal donning
Ritualize the ways of knowing,
And the enslavement of the dove’s feet
Doth cry in rightful crowing
For the aberrant undaunted.
This eve doth sweep
My bosom clean.
The nightmare steed
Wildly runneth –
Its mane is the flag
Its eyes are of
Liquid silk enchants the earthly temples
Of spring-announcing winds.
In their trail of watercolour reverie,
Have fled the solar furnace
To kiss the canvas of time
With sweet fullness of voidness.
The canticles of ecstasy
Awaken the master of subtleties.
The jaws of pleasure invite
The mysteries beyond to be revealed,
And in their sway of cosmic pathways,
Teeth and tongue hold the key
To the memory unseen.
The price of what you want is not a price because a price does not exist.
The price of you want is merely a self-transformation for you to flourish into the greatest that you can be. And once you know what you want, you will never be able to return to where you were before you knew.
The price of what you want is to dare to be yourself unapologetically.
The price of what you want is to realize that, even in all as one, you are an individual of upmost particular value to yourself.
The price of what you want is the bravery of letting go of old detrimental patterns of thought, emotion, behaviour, and connections, shouting and bleeding, “I’ve had enough!!”, and revolutionize your ways to see yourself prosper.
The price of what you want is the courage to trample fear and look straight into the pitch black unknown unfazed.
So, come what may!
The price of what you want is your liberation from all you have ever deigned to complain about. You kindle your circumstances by way of your own reactive methods.
The price of what you want is to remember yourself.
Enough of empty words!
Enough of fleeting fantasies!
Know yourself, and see what you want fulfilled!!
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.
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
Rosy bird, shaking its wings off the autumn rain. Rosy bird, chirping gleefully through the sunset vale. Saved now, saved again by the Cthonian pyre of truthful gaze. Oh, how did the flaming tongues scald the sentry's fortress of eyeless self! In the night of day, in the devoted ballroom of conscious pretence - moonstruck and moon-strained from unearthed terrors of solar haze - birdy bird did cantillate, with blood tears, the shackles away. The black devourer crawled from the dungeon cells: Stygian, starless madness - a wailing ghost, a mindful lover in the haunted corridors behind the masks we wear. ~*~ Rosy bird, incinerated by art of self to crown itself sovereign again and again. Rosy bird, the infernal shadows wrought about the end of luminaries' benighted lanterns. Watchful bird, the world is the empire of dreams in reverse. Phoenix bird, saved now, saved again from winter's premature embrace. Titan bird, reborn in the reflection of theatre's grace. Saved now, saved again by the sentient might of consciousness.
This year has proved itself quite engaging, has it not? This is a note for you, dear reader. In the fathomless pools of your sorrow and despair, remember! Remember to keep inquiring yourself. Your liberation lies with the courageous action to seek and comprehend yourself. Unveil your shadows; for that which makes you uneasy is the key to your escape. Even in hopelessness, there is hope still to find your path to a life you would deem worth living. Know yourself and master yourself, else some other force will take command. Know yourself, because only you can accept or deny how to live in any shape or form.
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.
Crystal bed of sentient quiescence
amidst the dark bedazzled
tombstone of solar haze.
A night of sentiment bedighted
in grim and graceful lace,
watering her wake with dry tears
of lucid bewilderment.
A brilliant spear imbued
with roses and nightshade,
the warm solitude untouched,
immaculate by virtue of rebirth.
The altar of sacrificial breath
for the alluring ambrosia of the dead
tells the tales of an ancient distress:
a sorrow of loving hell unredeemed
by the armament of the deluded flesh.
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.
In the night’s Plutonian rendition
of water warm and subtle might,
the Silver Lady of the Sky
didst away the ghosts
of past thoughts and spider-webs
of human bejewelled lore.
She soaked herself
in through the guise
of noon gold and rainbow cross,
and oozed from every pore
to purify the pools
with the reflection of Soul.
And I knew, and she bespoke,
“Carouse in the essence
of sweet and tender storm,
and leave no cemetery unturnt
that thou may’st draw deeper
into the mysteries openly veiled
without being swayed
by the dozen semblances
which I have bore
froms drops to streams of frailty
which bedrock is the will
to stand strong.
Umbra: Logos! Come and dance with us.
Logos: I am fine, thank you.
Core: Oh, come on! I’ll teach you some moves.
Logos: Umbra, is she staying long?
Umbra: Core is part of our family. She’ll stay forever with us.
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.