Shangri-La

Scarecrows peer at the anomaly
To find peace devoid of malady,
And the melody sets darkness to flame,
Prolonged wars besieged with rain,
For fiery struggles prophets to win,
For battles soothsayers lose to disdain,
For odes for tired minds to sing,
For locked horns to spiral and spin,
For losses shall occur again,
So when awakened could begin again.

Lost is the will to live.
What despair immortality to give?
Terrors of the anxious hearts grieve
The place of resting peace,
Which never could be.

Here lies doomed beneath the clouds
In the lonely room we found, 
That brought for you eternal bloom
That makes for me the perfect tomb,
For days and seasons pass in vain,
Without you this heart is feign.

Your memory makes me not spare.
The aches of separation, and despair.
Fear is pale, and journeys end.
Desires are silenced, and now I am low again
With sickness, and with suffering,
Emptiness will grow,
Loveless letters too remain,
The soul of nature too deranged.

In life shall remain unchanged
This you, this me, that we regained
But lost the realm of Shangri-La
Not never, but in anastasia.

Shambhala

The tear of forgiveness,
A song of water
in the realm of senses,
A method to madness,
A slave subliminal
To the land of barbarians.

Mercy recedes from justice, from peace,
To liberation from desire, from gravities.
An act antecedent on gravel and stone,
Obsessed with nostalgia to repent and atone,
With credence that heals, with cadence and candour,
With great expectations in fields of Flander.

Saviours mourn for distances
The white dove brings in between,
Eternal flames of luminescence,
Light where dark once had been.

A Serenade for A Preacher

He went down the rabbit hole
In search of love and found desolation.

She breathed when all hell burned,
Buried beneath the soil of heaven. 

The mask of death sang for them

A serenade of fate and sacrifice
To create the objects of death’s despise,

To explore the realm of sense within.

Was it love? Was it a lie?

Was it the symphony sung by

The body of his beloved?

A song of faith to the crown,

To let mercy carry him down,

While youth chose grace in sleepless nights,

And danced with blasphemous nights,

This thin immutable veil,
of heavy guilt and despair,
of war and peace eternal,

Is nothing but ignorance.

The rhythm of this hymn,

In the kingdom of heaven
Is a peaceful nightmare.

Dead men walk with devotion.

Lonely seers with their hearts broken 
As reapers see through visions
Of her dying light, a mask, upon her broken masks, 

A form upon augmenting forms,
Deceivers, breathing in the lake of fire, 

Lost in the ruins of their sensual mire,

Caught in the concentric circle of desires, and

Cursed to damnation by the serenade of death.

The beautiful and the damned atone and repent. 

But death lurks near them,
In absolute silence and darkness.

In absolute horror,

Dead angels meet their maker
In the cursed mirror on the wall.

Antecedent to their eternal void within, 

Defeat rests there upon love.

Empty. 

Hollow. 

Purging. 

Spiralling.

Death sings a serenade of their greatest fall.
Death sings of faith, and like justice,
A storm flickers in their heavy hearts.
Preacher! Preacher! You, servant of god!

When the lovers burn, then light,
The absence of darkness, 

Will play its most deceitful game,

And through light, your whispers, will in darkness reign.

Sing, the foreshadowing of damnation.

The reflections in the holy water, through tears, represent 

The memories of unholy sensations.

With grinning faces, the guilty anticipate their trial.

Preacher! Preacher! You, servant of god!

Sink to the depths of your despair.

Disintegrate into the substance of death.

For death will greet you by a thousand cuts

When the river runs dry,
You will weep for the infidels.

The faithless sinners may find liberation
In the heavenly shade of your death,

Lest death drag them first
Through the ruins of hell for their betrayal.

And the mystical tune will lure them to the gate of heaven
And they will find it shut,

Where nature will be revealed to them
in the colour of their dusk.

For what they have done, who will repent?

Who will atone? Who will be chaste,
If there ever was such a thing as chastity?

He went down the rabbit hole

In search of love and found desolation.

He followed her there, though mistaken. 

Terrified, he retraced his footsteps,
Trapped in hell forever by death. 

And though he may not understand
What she did to him,

He shall one day transcend
Her desire for him.

Intercession

These eyes do not deceive as a mirror deceives.

A mirror cannot reflect my mind’s eye.

This darkness I hide in me does not reflect any illusions.

Beyond these black barren clouds, 

No sunshine glimmers 

And all the lakes run dry.

What kind of a black cloud is this,

That has obscured the world and humanity from me?

I ascend to the gate of heaven and plead:

“I have travelled a long road to your doorstep.

Though I have never crossed over to the other side,

Your door is as close as I have come to a ray of hope.

Guide me past death’s door if she is benevolent,

but do not rob me of the light in my eyes in your kingdom.”

Samsara

The film ended past midnight.
I found a quiet bench.
The ether in the black well gazed my waking dream.
Disbelief obscured the echoes of the empty mall.
I held on to the grief of tragic love.
Contentment cured my sombre pain.

My Lover’s Kaleidoscopic Pyre

What the secret constellations of time

Had memorised

Will erase your intoxication
And your delusions about our past
Into an ablution.

Stargazing will bring you wisdom
If you are full of regret.

I do not know 

Which is more difficult:
Letting go or being forever heartbroken.

A great deluge of memory reminds me,

Of things I have to keep in the kaleidoscope Into which I carelessly chant my farewell.

Endure my whispers in the void.

It must be love if I hear my thoughts in your voice.

It must be love if I succumb to this helplessness. It must be love if I think of you When this diabolic pain rips my insides out.

Without you, I have lived in the grey for so long that I no longer mind the sour taste of defeat in my lemonade, And I let these pastel violets fade to that midnight black. Is lavender still your favourite colour, Or are you more fond of your sea green blue now?

Seasons paint the landscapes to hide the blankness,
What might the atonement for this broken faith be?

To sharpen the memories

And cut through the obstacles 

Is perhaps the way I have to go.

The bitter pain of our parting Does not numb this pain anymore.

To watch the sky from which these tears fall

I step outside the threshold.
The clouds are black.
But, without them, this cleansing rain wouldn’t fall.
From behind the veil, I saw resolution, not conquest.

Contentment cures

Your lust for youth and innocence.
Your envy of the beautiful
Is the antidote
To your renunciation of morality.

Your forgiveness was love,
Your kindness companionship. 

The pyre is awake. 

Death is your master.

Evil cannot enter the premises of this monastery.

Love is pure. Faith restored.

Perversion (Edited)

The lust for wounded identity
makes me wonder if
religion, colour, relation, character
are mere certificates validating
perverted curiosities.
Should there be freedom to stare,
to speak whichever way we like?
Foreign appearances are especially fetishised.
Sexual violence and discrimination are especially televised.
No, we are not mere objects of lust.
Definitely, there is more to this than that.
Idealism doesn't have to be narrowed down to
personality types, domination and slavery.
If self-improvement isn’t love, what is love?
My perverse imagination is averse to violence.
My conscience understands consent
in the idle game of rivalry
championed by perverted, corrupted, violent men.
For when the streets stretch deserted,
when glass shatters against the wall,
who is to blame if not us all? 
The rickshaw puller, the neighbour, shop-keeper
co-worker? Is the object of sex pleasure,
or is it to inflict pain?

I was never perfect and never will be.
I never belonged to anyone,
perhaps not even to my parents;
they know how to let go of me.
How can I belong with my good wife?
How will I abstain from my perversions? 
How will I live in my world of fantasy?
I learnt to lose my innocence at an early age
before I learnt how to be a child.

I was laughed at and turned away.
My eyes have sunk and darkened, 
with pools of tears
that overflow when I am alone.
But I will not take off this mask of bravery
till I am home. So, be kind.
I do not need a people's movement. 
I need you to wear this mask that heroes wear. 
I need you to understand 
that I have always finished last,
and I am used to it.

Perversion does not know what it looks like 
staring at a child’s frock. Perversion is sick.
How is it that freedom and fearlessness 
are among things to be oppressed in society?
I do not understand.
But that is my fault. 
I will grow up to be an indecent man. 
It is okay for me to stare if I am curious.
I am not a man.
Surely, to be a man must mean something else. 
Why didn’t I learn anything good?
You taught me to be better than this.
Why can’t I ever raise my voice at injustice?
Why am I so damn brittle and timid? Goddamnit!
Will I ever learn the holy art of confrontation?
Am I to suffer further still to become a better man than this?
Must I only suffer? Mustn't I seek the pleasure of your company?
Sometimes,
I fear I am growing schizophrenic.
I wish I could see the bright side of life,
and not let its burdens weigh heavy upon my heart.
Is there hope for someone like me? 
Surely, I must have misunderstood masculinity.
Does perversion think only of sex,
or is it criminal intent? 
I know lust,
for I have felt it.
I know love,
for I have lived it.
Then why did you live in constant fear?
Was it you? Was it me?
Was it the absolute corruption of society?
Was it the death of good politics?
Why don't drunk women parade the streets
and buy men for sex?
Why do sex and violence go well together? 
I disbelieve in love and politics.
Hatred penetrates my mind.
I fear schizophrenia.
I know the trauma,
the shock, 
the guilt, 
the misunderstanding, 
the hesitation,
the loss of innocence 
the abuse 
the ugliness.

We should do something!
Should we remove
the part of the brain
responsible for love and empathy? 
Will that be torture?
Will it be relief from this pain? 
Why aren't we doing something? 
Why does our time stand so fucking still?

Deliverance

Religion is the chaos of the spirit kingdom. Come nighttime, in libido, a fetus dreams

melancholic schizophrenia, of moons, tidal waves, emotional disturbia.
A paranormal awakens,
in luminescence of stars, awaken a million suns, that are shining in my universe.
Her radiance, a Holy Ghost, I witness bad blood moons, I feel their wrath, hear their resonance. Her breath is this cosmic dance that I live to experience.
Sceptics may deny that love lives in spirit, a burning light, where nymphs are purging,
wailing spirits find abode,
banshees find burial,
and the pale dead boy is washed
with tears of grief, and
a thousand widows alas peacefully sleep.

Sati, deliver me from catatonic projections,
for these are symptoms of insanity,
such is the grief of losing my beloved.

Chthonic spirits, Holy Ghosts,
betrayed, unforgiven, I plead,
a new beginning must dawn
upon my beloved soulmate,
like the beginning of a new year
at midnight, when
the last rays of the setting sun disappear,
into a nothingness, which I've known,
until a new sun rises, and deliverance grows.

A new sun rises
illuminating her smile
within my mind.
I will forever worship such a sun.

Perseverance

Love,
keep your eyes wide open.
Desires forge before you,
in an abysmal inferno,
with the flames of a virtuous rage.
Look for the flash of the lightning
that burns up January nights.
Persevere through its lies.
Persevere through its hunger.
Persevere within its mirage.
Your eternal happiness
lives within and beyond.
Persevere under this prison of your skin.
Love,
discover the truth
of this odyssey towards your sisterhood
and all that you need
will be painted lavender.
Persevere through this apology.
Save yourself from martyrdom.
My flaws spiral through speculations
like fiction chanted at the gates of hell.
With your impression adorned
on my being
like distortions in the memory of my sins,
I am not afraid to walk
to the death of my emotions,
to the artful rotting of my soul.
Love,
you were the rite of purification
when I was at the end of the road.
Underneath your light,
nothing can persevere,
a liberation to walk alone.
Persevere through moksha
at the crossroads
intersected
with the memory of the road,
a vermillion sea,
glistening,
in the reflection of the fires of doom.
In search of bleakness,
exiled, from your kingdom,
once the most beautiful, fallen.
Persevere through kindness.
Persevere through this war with your soul.
Persevere through this fear of god
and you will find true perseverence.

Nescience

in
utero
dereliction

qualm

maternal
emptiness

unanimity
gestation
formless
human
avatar
genetic
awoken
failed
experiment
deceit

inanity

antic
sceptic
pensive
stare

mother
tongue
spoken
word

childish
yearning

false
friend
wandering
interpolating
faint
footstep

burning
bridge

veil
figment
bliss

moment
truth

nascience
virtuous
path
suffering

echoes
death

ignorance

peace

Penance

You are cut deep
yet you fight with bravery.
You feel tormented, yet
you lust annihilation.
Love is war, it is
deprived of reason.

Dementia wreaks havoc
and your name erases from my memory
like a fire extinguished,
when the wick has run its course.

The flame of lust,
takes the shape of an eye,
burning beyond the bluest wax
that cannot spark lust
without the void
where memories are cast away.

Delusions sabotage gestations 
and the child quietly sleeps.
Dementia reigns.
Where art thou?
These walls you're building around you...
brick by brick,
like an assault of bone on bone,
with my skull, I tear them down,
till war horns ring through corridors of deja vu
and my temple bloody,  
because your home has body and soul.
Afflicted from behind the veil of deceit,
my wingless dead soul can not heal.
Where is peace
when the residue of the torment
surface over me, and
the child quietly sleeps?

Meditations on detachment
turn love to ash,
slow down time.
Bury me.
Burn me.
Sink me.
Push me off a mountain,
just so I might find my final act of penance.

A tormented snail
sailing across the universe,
yet to catch on with deceit.
Is there another life beyond these gates of hell?
Is this sinister journey into a different realm
a transcendence of its living emptiness?
Does the void deep within us both
stare at the chaos in each other's lives?
Meditations on the logic of a dream,
like cocaine, dilate your pupils,
like the memory of your bruised body,
rush into my lungs,
like oceans rush
into the lungs
of the sinking man.
The child sleeps
yet hears these hymns I hum in penance.

Let these monologues
of affliction
mirror the gestation,
embrace,
never let me go.

Benevolence

Ugly is the infestation of envy.
An envious night will drown the sun
for victory.
Humanity is a tale of torment,
and benevolence
is the seed of love.
Can the wrath of war sink eternal bliss?
Cannot benevolence drown infernos instead?

A broken heart needs seventy-two stitches,
and art needs erasing the name.

In a garden, to reflect on what is past,
makes water lilies bloom.
Breed a man for memory of war
and his sole allegiance
is to the king's blade,
that swings earthward
like autumn leaves fall.

As the wounded hands
of the fatal clock march on,
hopeless tears will eat into
the stardust of the body.

Let go of home
for fancy,
for happiness,
for valor.

Valor?
It is to hold the hand
when wine has made the dancer drunk.
To have faith
when the last thread of sanity has dissolved.
To bleed through a lover's aversion.

Lonesome winters promise dear death,
and benevolence is the cemetery,
full of white roses and blood red,
it is that paradise
where the gates remain open forever.

Reverence

(The Birth of Venus, Sandro Botticelli,1483)

Born of water - blue-eyed, blonde and porcelain,
Venus makes fertile even disastrous destruction.
Forsaken for our sins, every day
we make mischief endlessly,
never to witness how brightly she shines
when the darkness she illumines.
Smiling at our deviant mischiefs,
she cures forever our earthly sickness.
She watches us from nigh,
though we live beneath a starless sky.
Her body hangs from that morbid ceiling,
illuminating a divinely revered being.
Sand dunes shift insinuating that love is insignificant,
when grains of sand drift towards the intoxicant.
She covers up deceits and disguises,
so spectacularly alone, when the evening star rises
in search of rivers and holy seas.
Draped in a veil of flowers from trees,
she laments the horrid fate for her daughters,
and seeks drowned Adonis in those waters,
so we may rest in peace in the arms of eternity
and remember that with her blood she gave Earth fertility.
She is the morning when dew drops on the flowers,
she is the love that a beast devours,
she is the colour that makes the garden vibrant,
and the tones of her voice soothe our soul out of its torment.

Soulmate,
love is the light within you, and
it falls upon my face through stained glass.
An angry non-believer, I
begin to believe.
Your miseries and mysteries do put me in doubt,
till my faith in Venus reminds me, that
your eyes were not meant to see,
your fingers not meant for toil,
your feet not meant to tread,
nor your ears meant to hear.
Your body had birthed only to be admired and revered.
So severe the desperation,
for your love man imitates the Bard of Avon.
Lost love's lessons learnt, and
this blackbird on morrows fails to sing
for he has hidden Adonis with his cunning.

Desire and devotion are both her grace.
With sacred love, her hands mould the clay
which give your body matter and shape
upon the wheel of time.
The hourglass turns at the hands of Venus.

I wonder who might they have been
who made love the subject of their arts?
How sincere was their devotion and reverence?
Were they sentenced to craft the kingdom of God,
or were they angels, or demons were they?
Were they flawless, or damaged were they?
Look into the eye of the craftsman when he contemplates.
Tongue-tied with sealed lips, unable to say a single meaningful word,
but, the light in the windows of his soul will tell you
he is broken, and forever so condemned to be,
seeking what is lost, cursed to his damned blind faith for eternity.

Of the seven sins, even God will agree, that
lust is the most beautiful one,
where nature has procreated for ages.
May a mortal fantasise about the beauty of Venus?
Dirt beneath her feet, ugly smoke on her cool water,
tainted cloud shrouding her brilliance, near-nothing
dare stare into the face of the divine goddess of beauty and love?

A fool, to imagine that true love will last forever
when its true meaning surfaces only upon its death.

Admiration

So there I was, a stillborn.

Rampant demons admire darkness.

From such darkness, you've once emerged,

a petal of that rose 

whose thorns have bloodied this dagger I found 

pierced through my heart.

Nothingness you made me feel.

Nothingness is all I've become.

From nothingness, I howl solace.

A brain numbed with your photos, and

the conversations we never had.

A heavy mountain sleeps in my heart, and

I drown in this serene pond where
fishes eat the clouds and the sun.

Monotheism

The muse descended one inverted night

and whispered in the echoing light.

Here birth leviathans, and
here births your othering.

Here feed the maggots, and 
here breathe your demons. 

Here is love, and love is betrayal.

Here, thoughts dement for language.

In search of words, in search of someone,

here breeds only pestilence.
Here, mnemonics and sacraments you seek,
and the possession you have embraced here speaks.

Why mustn't gunpowder trees
birth out of this disease?

Why mustn't the seeds of hate
let their flowers germinate? 

Though the path to your vessel
is laid with thorn and thistle,

souls still seek it to contaminate.

In my search, I found fruits of poison,

flowers of hate in bloom, I found.
Masks I found and wore them well,

strings I found stitched to my limbs, and
the puppeteer I found was only acting from
his throne upon this minefield of yours.

I am lost for words,

I am lost in his darkness.   

I am in love, and
love is my betrayal.

A lifeless puppet, I wear masks on masks, 

so many lives to die one day.

Hollowed bones pray to be born,

and no eye to see thy kingdom come their way.

There is no life after death,

only this life itself will be hell,

and this will be your last betrayal.

Where do you hide so much hate?

How do you let it cultivate? 

Can art be the answer?

Can I be the answer?

In search of a self, desires were all I found,

they were all there was to embrace,

and I know that this was my betrayal. 

Pressed beneath the beasts of your burdens

I have well suppressed my own self,

but I am absolutely corruptible,

forsaken, I have long scripted my own betrayal. 

Buried beneath the land of the fraud,

and with the scepters piercing through my bones,  

I seek an end to religious war. 

The flames of your inferno deprive me of senses,
I rage on and on with my arms extended,
in my search for the unnamable weight of your existence,
my fingers daren't form a fist in resistance. 

My arms extend toward your light 

and I see that the black clouds are descending,

the wrath of your thunder will soon strike me down
and the flames of your breath will burn these wings down.
From my ambitious flight, you will see me fall,

and this stampede is your violence on souls 

who fly to seek this vessel of yours.

The Butterfly Effect

O' youth!
I remember you, curiously.
Your divided nativity
roots the surfacing grey urban human
to the blackness of the deeper tribal inhuman.
How utterly terrified are you
of a mere indestructible atom!
I know you fear eternity,
yet you peer at the ocean, baffled,
longing to explore its wild side
even if it may take your life.
You draw simple pleasures through your feet
from the caresses of its withdrawing waves.
Walk with me toward the gates of death,
hand in hand, O' glorious youth!

In one moment of madness
two worlds collided, yours and mine,
and all you do is smile that electric smile?
That spark has into a reverie blurred,
thoughts into chaos drowned.
How will these wounds heal,
when all you do
is injure yourself?
How will these wounds heal,
when your eyes ablaze
at this ephemeral dance of lust?
How will these wounds heal
when forbidden addictions inject desires,
like venom, into your senses?
How will these wounds heal,
when every time I think of you
tremors devastate the rest of my world?

An erotic spark ignited
and we made a mistake.
We will learn from it one day
if we live,
but we will live a life of regret.
If I express my love for you
into chaos deeper still I will fall.
Can a future unearth our absurd relationship
and we correct our past?
I ask the Sibyl of Babylon
who foretold the exploits of Alexander.
The abstinent ascetic speaks:
Immolate yourself in this fire of desire
and renounce this passionate spirit of yours.

A violent creature spirals skyward,
rising from the wrathful ocean.
Lightening crashes down from heaven,
bringing us the mask of death.
And all this occurs because
a butterfly hath flapped its wings?

Broken

Red voices bruise blackened shadows inside my head

and cracks appear 

on the surface of this disintegrating Earth,

revealing to me the nether world.

Sharp edged thoughts dissect
through open wounds a holy sun.

Like hot dunes of hovering sands 
and layers upon layers of fatal gas,

thoughts wreak havoc

destroying worlds within worlds.

Illumined beneath these thoughts,

fragmented, like explosions
burning the skies with fire, 

my blind soul glows like ember

till cracks appear on the surface,
broken like shards of glass,

leaving me out of breath from traumatic memories.

Ash rises from the deep.

Its taste spills onto my tongue like poison,
and all the love is lost to violent reflections.

Like shards of glass, I appear.

Enslaved with the spite of these thoughts 

and defeated by deceit. 

I despair, for this world is nothing but a lost cause.
Broken yet held together by misery.

When all life shall turn to dust before my eyes,

when fire ignites in the abysmal dark,

I will awake 

out of amnesia of the life speeding by.

For I am testament to vanishing gods.

For the gatekeepers of hell
have let demons pass
every now and then
to whisper omens into my sleep.

Who wrecks me with eternal war?

This coveted spirit like dark apocalypse
buries me alive,
chains my spirit down for memento mori

and shall never return again.

At dawn on green misty mountains

my rotting carcass pleases hellbound ravens, 

for the netherworld awaits its holy feast. 

When I was a child 

I felt evil lurking, 

for I was too close to sinners. So,

what am I doing here?

Why was I thrown into the fire of this world?
Why does this inferno torture my soul?

A cracking vessel in a river of fire,
like boiling blood running through the veins. 

Close to the sun,
I come crashing down
into your eyes,
like distant stars in the black of the night. 

Torn apart yet held in place, like shivering leaves

on a tree through which passes angry wind.

Where does this wind come from? 

It comes from there, I think.

The place I've been chasing all my life,

somewhere I belong.

But when I look at these shards of glass

that cause bruises inside my head,

deluded I reckon

these pieces are my own. 

Fleabag

A fruit fell
from the gunpowder tree.
It fell as if
Atlas shrugged.
Its canopy once branched
and pierced the darkness beyond the perrenial sky.
The tree was once home to extra-terrestrials,
it once climbed the fog, blooming heads and human limbs,
its fruit were flames which burned
abodes down to the earth. 

A fruit fell
from the gunpowder tree.
It fell as if
Atlas shrugged.
Once, a seed of time,
the tree stood in a dense forest
as stands still time which has passed.
Under the burden of its dense black shadows
man passed his determined years,
disillusioned with omerta, he remained rooted
to the arrogant belief that the soul was eternal. 

From its summit the fruit came crashing down,
like an asteroid or a venomous sting of a black scorpian.
A wind exploded inward from the horizons
and the expanse of the middle world rocked
between the earth and the skies.
Dissent perished, ambitions trodden 
under the weight of their own grand expectations,
youth died, ideals in midst of decandent pleasures buried.
That celestial eye beamed
into the black void within,
and the whole tree growled
with a kind of horror which reigns eternally
over tortured souls in asphyxia.

A fruit fell
from the gunpowder tree.
It fell as if
Atlas shrugged.

Abstinence

He tread past endless gunpowder trees,
and across barbed wired fields,
played with darkness
and lost himself to smoke, he tread,
sowing the seeds of hope
in the the barren hearts of those,
who once walked this road before with hope.
He tread, growing, becoming and waiting. 

A new world order abstains,
waits, till to be servile is to be human.
Nothing interlinks its symmetry, 
no time to begin its pessimistic design.
By abstaining, in waiting, it simply perishes.
Is he the last surviving
in a timeless apocalyptic world?
Is there no answer to his question?
He speaks only with God, alas!

Loneliness might have deluded man
so far off the truth, that
stories he built solely on visions
remained visions solely for him.
These visions bound him nonetheless,
to a sigh nevertheless,
growing from the contemplation
of ways to abstain from vices
and from virtues all the same,
and from every one,
and all the fears ever encountered by him,
he tread, fractured, across this wasteland.

Through the broken abyss of cold deserts,
on shards of broken glass, he tread,
in pursuit of happiness,
knowing well, he may never attain
such as thing.

And the angels of lullabies, who
were never this generous,
after a single taste of poisonous flowers
burnt with a righteous fire,
raining over old worlds, burning,
filling imperfect oceans with mortal lust.

He too lay dying, abstaining
from whispering your name in vain.
For he saw your love, like it was the sky
spanning over these troubled waters,
uniting only at horizon, and still only illusion.
And the wrath with which he walked the land
was forgotten as the less human he became.  

 

Delirium

To hear these thoughts
in my own true voice, I dreamt. 
And in this dream I was flying. 

I don't know when my eyes closed,
but I awakened to this dream
that I was flying. 
Without any knowledge 
of with whom I conversed,
I repeated to myself that in the darkness
there was never anything or anyone.

That end which is inevitable,
I watched it from afar,
from within this dream,
until death came to me. 
Where else shall I go to?
What good may it do
to go seeking yet another world?
With nothing to lose or care for,
I flew in this dream I had. 

Illusions erected like pillars in clockwork,
seasons painted my entire universe with incomprehensible beauty,
still the raven sang of a black void hidden beyond this mirage. 

Decaying reflections of life like memories withered,
yet I recollected them, burning in the strife it caused me, 
I appropriated them to my apocalyptic visions.

I had a dream that I flew past this underworld
and gasped for the air of another world.
But a frozen realm surfaced before me,
and all my life I'd yearned for it to be mine alone,
but to see it this perfectly dead and still,
I don't know if this dream was ever my own.