Two-fold Vision of Humanity

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Midnight stroke a symphony of two-fold clarity, as I paced around in silence while everybody slept. How amusing and how horrific had the picture of humanity appeared before me!


To fulfil our physical sojourn in this world, we seek to make ourselves of value by way of choosing and polishing a craft from which to make a living and sustain ourselves.

Such beauty, is it not? To be able to freely sculpt a fine specimen of a life provided the right influences be present.


With a vision and a purpose, creativity would know no limits, and we would weep with joy at the realization of our potential expanding like supernovas in outer space.

And then it came to me that the body of knowledge that humanity cherishes, all its inventions, are the product of the imagination. From the most academic endeavours to the more overtly artistic expressions, everything we have and have done has had its origin in a thought which has preceded manifestation. All the great accomplishments have had as base someone who provided something which was not available before.

Suddenly, it made no sense to me that such a thing called a job would be so stiff.

It was then that horror supplanted hilarity. We look like figurines running around and groping in the darkness of ourselves and the world around us.

Not only are there no specific rules by which to design life, but our lives are dependent on our imagination and our creativity to build something quite magnificent out of it instead of solely relying on pre-established institutions perpetuating models of reality that may or may not be of value to our lives.

If all be dependent on a sparkling thought, the birth of a new idea via myriad media of inspiration, we would ultimately appoint ourselves to be the prime architect of our lives.

But what happens when man is unleashed in his full creative expression without an in-depth realization of himself and the possibilities all around?

The untold may ensue!

For one, the wild sense of freedom may become so overwhelming as for us to feel trapped with so much potential at the disposal of our judgement and creative flavour.

There would be no one else to point our finger at, as this freedom would become our undoing or our greatest tool for major transformation and empowerment directly from our hand.

Not only would we be responsible for ourselves, free from past conditioned shackles, but the world itself would make us responsible for ourselves.

And from this would emerge the prevailing tendency toward excellence, for once devoid of the distracting excuses and fears shrieking from the bowels of our own personal hells – an excellence geared toward our success and satisfaction once we have embraced ourselves and recognized that we have all we need to be content already within us.

Ode to Blackness in Red

Image by Alyona Uramuru

Icy rings

As wreaths gleam

‘Round the waist of him,

The Dreaded and Sublime King.

What joy it is to peer

Into eyes of coal

As mirror-lake

Of soulful tale

In divine lore,

In truthful hope.

What boon it is to sing

The sagas of the warriors’ spleen

Wrought into halls of conquest

By iron art,

By lead and fire.

Of Fools’ Honey and Darksome Mercury

Image by Alyona Uramuru

The fool by nature, despite his common condemnation, is the first figure who dares to explore, use his imagination, and bring about innovation. Surely, it is the fool’s agency to be the first to defy convention to find his own treasure. Laugh if you must, but remember it is the fool who does what most frightfully only behold with longing in their wildest fantasies and fascination.

Alyona Uramuru

The most amazing and terrible thing about asking a question (or asking for anything) is receiving an answer that makes you realize exactly what you were looking for; thus striking you in such a way that you may need a moment before regaining composure, and even shed some tears.

Deep down you know exactly what you should be doing, what brightly kindles your passions and fills you with life. But out of doubt and fear, all you have ever known screams at you as if to dampen the flame of your heart because it is a daunting task and a huge responsibility. And you know that being truthful to yourself is your only salvation regardless of the great anxiety and pain eating at you.

I yelled and screamed a question long enough to receive a rumbling answer, with care and attention received my own salvation and damnation; for even though my passions rightfully live, I drink from my own shadows’ poison still to reconcile and liberate each nook and cranny from a society that little has done to polish the diamond of its many and varied treasured inhabitants.

If you were to stretch your hand and touch the ghastly and terrifying figures in your mind, your hand would pass through a curtain of fading smoke, and you would see you are in a labyrinth of mirrors where you are the sole inhabitant who oppresses himself by letting the tool of his servitude be the master of his torture – the very mind with which he lives: no longer a servant but a tyrant with a crown of illusions.

So, my dear, the quality of your experiences, whether they feel pleasant or not, depend rightfully on you. Be then the master of your mind because this tool, when left alone to wander, takes abode in every household provocative enough to attract it like a famished dog by nature of its non-judgemental logic to consume and produce the pleasures or hells of your reality.

Verily, there is no excuse to avoid doing what you know you should be doing.

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.

The Price of What You Want

Image by Harry Strauss from Pixabay

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!!

Plutonian: Entrance and Vanquish

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.

With Conviction,

Alyona

Umbra & the First General of the Cavalry: Nude Before the Monarch (V)

Image by Willgard Krause from Pixabay

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.

Image by Mystic Art Design from Pixabay

Umbra & the First General of the Cavalry: Enunciation at the Monarch’s Hall (IV)

Logos: When madness bestroke the already insane decaying gardens of the sleeping gods, Umbra wept with joy and forethought for that which she most sought: self-discovery, pure and uninterrupted destruction and salvage of self to revel in the flame at the core of herself. The unprecedented perils of the journey warned ere bestriding full force past the gate of no return; however, no forewarning and no distress can prevent a burning soul from seeking out and communing with the truth of itself. No illusion or carnal tale holds power compelling enough to ensorcel determination with provisions of naught.  No pain, no fear, and no insidious nefarious discipline can overshadow the eternal call of freedom. Beknownst to the irreparable damage that would be wrought upon the narrative of the corrosive necropolis, Umbra raced past the known fences of self-containing brittleness into the remote and nameless lands beyond. The hidden wisdom of the sinister obelisks forlorn, in quiet yet self-serving unrest, brought peace to the mind whose vows bespoke all the uncustomary tongues of evil: enthroning dark love shunned by demands of irrational and deceitful corporeality concoction. Having tasted the poison of the depths, there was neither place nor desire for a golden cage. The familiar errands of the sickly nursed were of a derision and disrespect to all the potential marooned or fading away. And it was thus how the rebel yell was breathed and maintained,

“Sovereignty or death!”.

Image by Mark Frost from Pixabay

Recordatorio en el Lecho de Muerte

La sepultura incierta

de la concordia del alma,

tras osadía y odisea,

se levantará en cólera divina

bajo el cielo gris en recipiente

que augura la angustia.

El río cobrará su cauce,

y el ardor de la pérfida mordida

será el instrumento de guerra

que inspirará al espíritu fatigado

más allá del umbral de la autonomía.

Evanescence of the Sentimental (08/07/2020)

As if past ghosts dwelt still

in the willful caverns evergreen

to sanctify a heart

with the glacial touch of sleep.

Alas! Does the weeping trickle

through the breathing whim

of promising lands which,

by masquerade aside, exonerate

the uncanny aberrant.

And by art and fervent sacrifice

of briny diamonds in the clash,

does the wisdom of the fool

parades before the fire sword

of heretical command.

The wolf, the shadow, and the moon.

Stigma hominum befogs the mirror

of Exalted Harmony,

yet the glowing markings of pathwork

will always tune the melody of salvation

were one to know how to listen.

The Gift of Self

Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay

It is only the prerogative of an enslaved consciousness to deem the truth apocryphal. Nothing bears meaning except for that which we attribute to it. And with no escape from influence, our consolation rests in erecting a fortress of all which is supportive of our true selves; thus, being armed enough to relentlessly wage war against that which does not serve our purpose, or perish in the crossfire. The outcome of the struggle will be greatly contingent on one’s own desire to be free.

Timeless

Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay

In hours of soul night passing,

breathe in the venom of the deep dark waters

to change weakness into strength, vacuity into sentiment;

that no being may ever say your power you did neglect.

Rise, warrior of the eternal well!

The verdant fields sing with upmost praise.

Lift your sword and raise your shield.

Battle forward to keep your freedom.

Cuando Llueve de Antaño (Spanish Collection)

Image by Anja🤗#helpinghands #solidarity#stays healthy🙏 from Pixabay

¡Simiente del oscuro tutelaje, abogante transcendente;

tú, que inadvertida izas sombras en los pantanos de la gente; tú!

Simiente del exilio intransigente del olvido y la inconsciencia,

desciende del trono negro de la verdad plena

y consagra mi presencia con tu mano guerrera.

Hoguera del sagrado árbol nocturno, ubicua numinosa,

despoja los rasgos de la esclavitud recóndita

para que el cadáver viviente en los jardines del fulgor inverso

se arranque los huesos y reclame su imperio

más allá del péndulo mordaz de los dioses durmientes.