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.
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.
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.
Image by pieonane from Pixabay
Every spring is a delirious dream,
a fever of singing birds beaking
at the ribcage of the shadow of death.
Every spring, the tales of old fall asleep
to the chiming of wishes
which nature is to defy
the will to apotheosis.
But every spring takes the edge
off the wine of misery.
At one point, no reflex will escape
the awareness and dance of the puppeteer –
being there but forethought
and synergy with the lower machinery.
Thus, every spring is but a glass of alchemy.
Be drunk! Be mad! – Never still.
For the road is long in the quest for eternity.
Rue the enchantments
self-whipped into the skin of copper.
Feel contrite at the sight of the blindness of the light.
Melodist whose path engenders cockroaches
far from grate, stroke, and grace,
let me not see the astray longing in the gemstones of your eyes.
Creator who denies the sovereignty of his might,
compelled be to crawl through the apertures of my delight.
Sing, child of moss and raindrop!
Take my hand, being of rust and summer glow!
I’ll take you to the kingdom of the lost,
and rob you of your life with a single touch.
Incarnate the tunnels of pandimensional growth and spiraling sorrows,
so that you experience joy nonjudgemental in the morrow.