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.

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.

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

Twisted Angel (Portal of Blood)

Image by Willgard Krause from Pixabay

Raiding the skies for your ghostly light,

this twitching beserker wakes the Abyss

where all gates have gone to sleep.

Somewhere in this cradle of filth,

the rays of a sun reversed have injected me

with the venom of being.

Somewhere in this white darkness

burns the heart of a beast

whose claws’ only dream is to tear

all conception of idiocy.

Where are you!

You have left me here,

where the stars are the cause

of their own suffering.

Where are you?

How long will you hide from me

and deny me the medicine

of your silver anatomy?

~*~

Look, beloved, into the tidal string.

Thou hast forgot my image in no-time,

where all breaths breathe one memory!

Despair not, beloved.

Come with me into the new soil of being.

Plow the Earth with thy fanged fingertips,

and fertilize me with the might of cavernous conquering.

Sink three swords into the dirt,

and hold onto one as thy rest is confirmed.

Amaranthine Pillar of Adverse Satisfaction

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

Weariness that is not weary.

Determination raging no-where reflected.

Peace swelling the breaths of longing.

Laceration piercing through the veil of masking

in the sarcophagus of my own confinement.

Amidst the nails of sacrificing, rust carves flowers everlasting.

A solemn vow – simmering blood intoning the death of falling.

A simple reminder – a void of eyes in the white darkness.

Formula

Image by Morticrist

The acausal being needs not be worshipped or praised. He works wonders quietly, yet his touch is most strange. He did not fight, yet he pressed my cheek against the hardened ground to uproot my molars upside down.