The Whisking

I thirst.
For the spells I have cast, to last. For the winds of constant change to carry me, fast. For time to slow down in moments of internal glow, and for it to hurry down the hourglass when lovers are apart.

I yearn.
For the negligent youth that is spent. For carefree days under Gray chunks of cloud. For illusions of friends and apparitions of enemies.  For mistakes made and lessons re-taught, and the power of will once owned. 

I seek.
For the path leading into the guts of the soul. For the blueprint of the mind’s labyrinth. For the trigger that will wind the heart to a blissful steady tick. For wax wings to soar the air, to discover the margins of the zestful sun.

I fall.
For pacts with forces yet unknown. For propagating emotions and flustering devotions. For intensely lucrative connections of a decade’s gap.

I rise.
From the depths of bleakness through abysmal kisses to a state of elation and glory.

I wonder.
Wandering beyond the fray, will the Whisking stay or will it end, will it obey or defy instead. But if hope dies last, then so will this.

Revelation

Oh sweet Melancholy, Muse of all that is holy
Gracing the regrets of actions past
Beguiling desires that are not meant to last
I surrender to your bitter insidious glory.

The deceased beast of Sentiment lays in the gutter
I traded a sinner for a martyr, and all i got was a lifeless pattern.

Oh impious Faith, Reveller of all that is rotten
Seizing the minds of humankind
Arming their blood spilling hands
You shall not make me do what is meant to be forgotten.

The crippled beast of Sympathy screams in the gutter
I traded a life pattern for an ideal and became a sinner not a martyr.

The Count of Three

To tell a truth of blood and wine

Takes tears of liquid steel and a lazy tongue

Clenched fists, holding on to a hope that fades

Into the grave, sieving through the cracks like fine sand

I kissed your mind and our souls collided

So I’ll give you to the count of three

‘Til you think of me.

We can call it even on this Gray afternoon

As you catch my breath with your velvet voice

And my stipulations drown like a forced pill

I surrender my injured body to your whispers’ heat

But razor-like palms hold my world as I knew it

I’ll give you to the count of three

‘Til you dream of me.

Counting the dying suns of yesterdays

Lost in trailing thoughts of tomorrows

I suddenly get the angel view of today

Mistaking whores for healers in heels

Hearing sooty truths, believing white lies

I give you to the count of three

‘Til you come to me.

But the dragons are mine to slain

The laments are mine to sing

None can rescue me in the labyrinth of my fears

The chimera slowly retreats and your presence dissipates

That’s when I realise that the memory of you must burn, alive.
One, two, three.

Time Machine

I want the key to the time machine,

The one you won’t let me use.

I want to be shaken sideways in time,

Until my body can no longer bruise.

I want to show you how to be free, like me,

In an instant, that I could do.

I want to soar above our worlds' woes,

Until my wings get heavy from carrying you.

I need to hear your voice in my dreams,

The one that used to soothe my fears.

I need to hold your hand in mine,

When my face is drenched in tears.

Tell me how to right a wrong,

How to undo the damage done,

Tell me it was not your Achilles heel,
Swear to me that what we had was real.
More real than pain, than loss, or my heart I will kill.

Consequential Nemesis

The clouds come down again to covet the evil,
In spirals they descend, raging and rattling, heavy as the rain they bear.

Caught red-handed, purity now cemented,

The Furies of self-loathing come to plague the blackened heart.

Slithering down like serpents infuriated,

Seeking to spread the spawn of disease created,

Their voices whisper the name, laced with the stinking breath of rotten guilt.

In the maze of the mind the blood stained prints tell the Fury jury,

That the pestilent madness is at reign, dissolving the lines of reason,

Like spiders spinning frantically their web of woe around their retired foe.
 

Time stands still from night the rabid Gray hounds of penitence are released and onwards.

Licking their frothing jaws and plunging their sharp paws into the mind’s ground,
They rampage past fathomless crevices where virtuous memories hide, to corner your naked fears,

Feeding them starkly before rapaciously starting to ravage all but jagged bones and prickling thoughts.
 
Time stands still from night the rabid Gray Hounds of Penitence are released and onwards.

Eternal and immortal, 'tis the vicious circle of crippling Consequence, and its bestial Hydra sibling Nemesis.

Sunset Sky-shows

Splice us up in Sin-shine

Immerse us down to drown

Unhinged to depths unknown

Watch the Sunset Sky-shows

Of Midnight Notes

And Oversexed Souls

Allied Truth or Scornful Dare

Blissful Sweet Despair

Steeped in Sanctity

Embraced in Brevity

Unattainable Gleam

Seize the Dream

And Never wonder Why

The Gray Decorum

Daze and dream with no limit.

Blow kisses against the wind.

Don’t bend the truth to be kind.

Accept desires and watch them transpire.

Throw old regrets into the pyre.
Raise the stakes.

Crack the mirror in seven.

Drive forward and brake in reverse.

Kill deceit before its rebirth.

Dance hard or die slowly.

Live fast all your life.

Believe you were born beyond the sun.

And that you sleep behind the moon. 

Shed only diamond tears. 

Become alive by shaming your fears.

Drink from the sky’s wishing well.

Crawl your way out of the nine circles of hell.

Brazen & Broken

And so they floated, high, soaring the midnight starry sky

Above skyscrapers, fumes and sins of yore

Faith vested, lies exposed and tested

Beliefs of lesser men in the dark, feeling worn.

Passion, like a virus, crawling beneath the skin

While fear consumes the consciousness from within.

The centre refuses its integrity to uphold

And sensing collapse, they plan a relapse

While their amber eyes, bleed tears of gold.

From Fire, the light

Through Water, the depth

In Air, the tumultuous thought.

On Earth they hang lifeless, brazen and broken

Their limbs left soaking as the flame of fortune is sought.

The Waiting, The Waking, The Calling...

Tense as if your muscles are on constant strain

Blank as if your mind is empty

Numb as if your soul has been decanted

And you wait, in the waking

Perched on your seat,

Grabbing the armrests with all your fingers' might

And still you wait, at the most awkward hour of the day

Waiting for the calling of the darkest hour when its' clear

There is clarity in the dark, in the night,

In the comfort of the silver anti-sun

It's beams, they guide your senses and dissolve all fences

When you realise, you digest, you no longer resist

That you are indeed a child of the night.

“Listen to them - children of the night. What music they make.”
― Bram Stoker, Dracula

If you listen closely, you will hear, they are calling for you.

Wake up the ghouls of Halloween, that have fallen in slumber again, tonight!

You will not see them, you will feel them.

'The most beautiful things in life are the things you cannot see.

That's why you close your eyes when you cry, when you dream and when you sleep.'