New Moon Soil

Fire was a wish –

a will of the battlefield –

and not a tombstone of self

upon the eyes of surrendering.

Fire was a wish of another employing.

It was the Master’s words

which bid Death to knock on the door.

And fire…

Fire was not the pyre of hope.

For Whom the Shadows Sing

Image by Karen Smits from Pixabay

The skeleton is scattered upon the old carpet.

The closet’s door is blown to shards,

and blood is splashed on the wall.

It trickles down to the spinning floor.

‘Twas I who dragged out the bones –

for retribution, for pain, for a love much higher than the taught self.

And I look at myself,

“Who shall hoist thee better than thyself?


Break thyself.

Return to the earth

through the sacred fire of willful vision and rise, dear Phoenix!

Rinse the ashes off thy vibrant plumage,

and continue where the fight challenged thee last”.

Dead & Awake

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

In the breeze lies no breath

for which I extend my grip and forbear my weeping.

In every garden a pricking thorn

for every poignant rose worth keeping.

The tides wash over the sands of my soul –

wax me stagnant,

gorgonize me on the spot,

tease the ground so tarnished with the white execrable.

Erewhile it had not mattered,

but the name of her burst forth of every mouth

in the hopes the prayers were answered.

They knew not their saviour laid breathless and disarranged

at the bottom of the old stone well amidst the town square,

that I bled her to death with a pen to quench my thirst,

to spare myself of beholding her face.

Clouds had not ere brought about the darkness,

and pouring ceased not thereafter.

The sun had fallen into the land of the forgotten,

and in her stead a young black star was lauded.

The sun never tarnished, if you ever wonder.

The sun alone perished without warning.

Afternoon Frenzy

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

The Sacrament at last

revealed its core to mankind.

The wraith slithered

to caress him at night,

and the Last Proof slipped away sad smiled.

The Paladin of Remembrance

to the walls dragged the stain

of her defiled heart.

The blood-bound one awoke

to the furious berceuse of the stars,

and, aghast, observed the kin fight

tearing hell apart.

And if she should bleed

for a well of miry shine,

unleash the storm

to drown her ‘lone.

Her fate is accurst,

and so is his who sits upon the throne.

Incarnate the grief of her,

who for wine imbibes blood

to die alive thirty centuries,

chained to the vicious masked satire.