Twenty-four Degrees in Wooden Arrows

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were – I have not seen

As others saw – I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I lov’d, I lov’d alone.”

“Alone”, Edgar Allan Poe

By lyrics unsung in the lunar springs,

I danced on the tongues of madness –

An epic eulogy of guileless tantrics,

The merciless eyes of acausality.

By prescient fires of ice and darkness,

The sea-floor’s vault was blown open.

The mortal coil withered in wonder,

And the world drowned in

The chestnut old

Of other-blunder.

Eyes of the Black Sun – 02/04/2021

In the heart of darkness,

death blows me a kiss;

her shadow lips

leave molten clay on my being,

and the arms of autumn

at perennial work rejuvenate me

in the womb of Abyss.

In the heart of darkness,

death blows me a kiss;

from her citadel she sings

she sings the reverse canticle unseen,

and I run to salute her

with devotion bittersweet.

In the heart of darkness,

the sanguine breaths into lucidity;

its palpitations paint the end of all aeons,

their nescience and assiduity.

The torpid cave in

under the crushing might

of primeval pelagic fist,

and I watch undaunted

the satire stomp in fury

as it frolics with ardent lunacy

to the calling of non-being.

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.