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.

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.”

Echoing Key

Image by konstantin rotkevich from Pixabay

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?

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.