Walks through Winter

 

 

Colder now.

 

It feels the back,

 

as it slithers.

 

 

A grasp of the

 

unknown.

 

A clasp of forces

 

to yet unfold.

Sometimes I

 

just

feel

 

the clusters

instead

 

of bittersweet mead.

A sweeter

 

realization

as melted honey

 

drops,

into crystals

 

as their visage.

A mirage.

The countless nights

in disarray. My contempt.

The older

I taste;

broader,

 

the noises,

 

that take hold.

 

Bring me

forth

 

the pain and

 

paints to go

round,

our plethora sphere

of hope.

Miles on end,

 

until I made it.

Past yesterday's

missed shots,

 

and welcoming

sensations:

 

 

The face

feels fine,

 

as long as the

 

torso's

 

well covered.

 

 

My fingertips

 

burn the eyelids

 

of sober emotions.

Ashore.

 

 

As I rub

 

away

the scenery

inside my

 

retinas.

Somewhere

 

out there.

A wilder call

 

full throttles.

A mile away

 

from the exit

 

pit.

 

 The sky's

 

never been

 

blacker,

 

and more gorgeous,

 

as it is now.

 

 

Know.

 

 

The moment

 

is nearing

 

each criticality's

 

point blank.

 

 

Only

street lights

 

show arousing,

the toughening,

of a pathway’s

older pebbles

 

left unbroken.

Day  feels

 

the skin of  Night’s

 

unglamorous

 

remarks.

Paranoia,

 

set the stones

into ever motion...

A mirror -double-edged-

so simple!

 

 

So attained...

A watch that faces

North.

Southern.

 

Polarities

 

off shore,

of change,

 

and consequences.

And Reign…

 

 

Fruitless:

The pursuit

of a suit

 

to put on

in order to be

happier,

when staring at

our reflections

inmost deep

still waters

of remorse.

My grandiose

soup of timelines

collapsing,

as particles

 

into vacuumed

polished metal doors…

Just like

before,

the songs of sirens,

feel so real, surreal,

to hear them thinned

so dimmed…

No more

throttles, as for chaos,

a never ending gallery

of galore

and clashes of

amygdala’s

bottomless pursuits;

into blend,

they march

as they scrape away.

The shapes of blades,

that sway away.

The stains.

Of former known

Reality’s Laws,

left unbroken

by The Fall.

The Fallen.

Take Its place.

Unto lonely shores.

I'll search, tirelessly,

The Stars,

around the feeling

of brightly singing

the colours

of the texture

of your voice…

And the weight of meteorites

depend on now

my atmosphere's will

to persist, the veil,

who attempts

to make me quite.

Quiet.

As I quit,

not the quid pro

quotas, left to

fulfill.

There's simply not

enough Human left

to go around

THE ROT

feeding the scared

or the lost.

It's the same patch,

a batch

of attempts,

to suffocate the screams.

And sew them into quilts.

For then, there's

 

 

silence

in The Plateau.

Now,

don't matter all the steps

 

taken

from our garden

of scorched petals,

flowing through the breeze,

turn them into fog.

And of course.

We shall explore The Bog.

To grab Horizon’s by

Its entrails

in the veneer.

Crush the last

foam castle

in which Dracons

choose to hide

and slumber away

centuries to burn

in their cauldrons for a

hearty stew.

And Brothers,

we shall see it Rise.

Into multitudes of Oceans.

We can try to tear apart.

Into mountains of Blood.

We will try to set a part.

Inside plains of Oblivion.

Lion and Beasts alike.

Will try to make a pact.

Forth, our Brothers.

This Time…

SATURN

Comes at Last.

An Exit. A Light. (A Cave too Cold to Hide)

 

 

 

Chasing voices, chasing echoes.

 

Relocate your tempo,

 

and put it into question.

 

Out of question, and garage,

fits the problem: a solution;

too much, too bold.

 

 

To handle.

 

 

My rusted bars

 

that set

 

pretenses

 

on demand.

 

 

Begs the effort

 

to cast investigations

 

and search, deep inside,

 

where no light touches a beacon,

 

but its Founder.

The rupture, now assertion,

the dominance of its trolley.

 

My problem

 

isn't mentions.

 

It's a lack of

 

proper motivation.

 

 

As apparatus, out of  measure.

My demented voices

put to paper... 

 

My intentions.

I want to see the world...

And watch It down my gullet.

Propel myself from

a character in the back

to the Protagonist

we'll become...

 

 

Hollow, nay never,

a morrow

 

of deathless sorrow.

 

 

My solitude.

 

Shapes the paper of a Master

 

to forge the chains around our

 

chances to strike

 

Gold

 

while we watch, nonsensical,

 

the river bleed out

its darker hues.

 

 

I

 

will never feel

 

remorse for the unbroken.

 

But

 

I shall too

cast my empathy unto

the hopeless.

Never watch me kneel.

For Kings of Falsehood.

Or Damsels of Endeavor.

Gaze upon

 

The Threshold.

And lie the guilt

 

of previous lives, ascension.

Into the blazes of growth.

An Evolution

 

will advent.

 

A filthy wave of

inaction.

Dissociates

my inner sanctum.

From the stains of its trail

I draw the positions

of my cards.

And from their shards

I can see into

 

the prospect of

Tomorrow's

Play - Park.

Linking

my frivolous

trials and errors.

I forgot to look into

the meadow.

 

Stare into

 

the endless eyes

of Neptune.

Find the forbidden hexagon

in between the palpitating

tensions.

And tremors.

A shake so surround it

crumbles.

The mass is now on sulfur

living so far the fumes

allow the motion.

All movement.

Can forfeit.

My steps.

 

Will leave burnt marks

 

in concrete.

 

 

I feel the Crimson Star.

 

I see the Ethereal Dawn.

 

 

I watch the Unspoken Hours.

 

And I cast aside my Proper Shadows.

 

 

And yet...

 

 

How come life feels to shine

 

when I'm walking far away

 

from You.

 

 

 Out of time.

And out of order.

It's a shame we couldn't find

a somber

moment

to exist.

Alas, Life will guide the furthest shores...

And I shall see you all.

 

 

Arrive.

 

 

 

Come on

 

 

Dawn.

 

 

I'll be waiting back...

 

 

 

 

Outside.

As swords against Masters

 

 

Blaze.

 

The blades.

 

 A night then thus

spells, encore memories,

again. Past ventures, from afar

gas leaks on the surface. Multiple times

a dilemma rises -turned concrete from so much

 

glass, burnt to perfect hot; to make it snow- and whitened

 

it seems, widened. So do my best tries to bend it, in two shapes...

 

As it unfolds. Lies we told no one, but

 

the lakes (our lonely chance, a denature

 

of selves) dentures then a new shape.

 

As those unto the brink:

 

a noble mascaraed, made

 

into gables & marble.

 

A

drop,

droplet,

drips into

the tense

pressure,

 

that surfaces

 

the air.

 

A fissure

for more

precision.

 

Some mutated

new rendition.

Of dimensions.

For connection.

Make them

 

into trees, and

sing the lullaby

of streams.

 

 

Uncharted.

The river shines

as flow goes and

re-discovers.

The voices of the forgotten

 

forest, speaks at no one,

 

but its primal sources...

Replace the light bulb,

as bullfights break amidst,

impeach the peace

 

of inner dialogue

 

at war...

 

at its peak.

 

 

Forget not

 

the faces

 

on the water,

 

that we'll pass

 

as you'll reach.

 

 

Settle for greater

 

heights

 

and lowered

 

than its range.

 

 

Flay the dance

 

on a trance,

 

until it breaches

 

the seal.

 

 

Unleash, as you

 

unsheathe

 

the poison

 

on dead grass...

 

The path to greatness

 

lies

into following

 

its smear.

It's a snare,

for those that try

and gallop out of way.

The way to nowhere,

 

but its forward

 

path, while chasing

 

the shadows

at our feet.

Warriors past

triumphs, and the

teal. A new

sense of grandeur

burn their scar rots,

 

as anew...

The Iscariots,

 

burn the chariots

at the most optimal

of ordeals.

 

So try new means

to make the matter stay.

As clay that grabs

masses on its own

pulse to give

a sense to chaos

out of mesh.

 

 

Some never-ending

 

mess...

 

 

And more veins.

 

An everlasting Reign.

 

 

To crave the penitence

 

that dreads.

 

 

And steel.

 

 

Burn my eyelids off

 

so that I shan't

 

try to cover near.

 

 

A Light that pierces

 

its trail into

 

my marrow.

 

 

A way of blood and forth

 

the narratives of

 

Octavio's.

 Brands new chapters.

 

 

As metal

clashes metal,

 

made now flesh,

from particles of pain

and forsaken impressions

of training

 

a will into

making it

 

make sense.

Choose the violence of

esteems, and don't ever

 

let it the better

 

of your bleeds.

 

 

Too much

 

and it's over, the whole

 

mischief.

Darken frequencies

 

are on the rising.

 

And as they'll try

 

to make you steer,

your will's the compass

 

to your deeds.

 

As the purpose,

 

as the water

 

and the waves.

An Endless Ocean

of discovery

of self.

Drips a droplet

 

worth

a thousand Universes

of the constant trying

and the failed.

 

 

As The Flayed.

 

 

Blaze new

 

ecosystems

 

out of train's.

 

The discipline

 

as you'll make it

a disciple.

 

 

To your mends.

 

 

Fit the stamina.

 

And your grip.

Forge the prayers

unto sheer.

Forget the noises

as you crumble;

 

shattered

senses of regard,

and the maintenance

 

 of identities

and images

of past beings.

The body is a method.

 

As thy spirit fits the beat.

Choose your weapons

only lightly.

Choose your villains

out of will.

Pick the curtains for

the unfounded.

Call your ending.

A chance to steer.

 

The ship that never lays

its fangs on land again,

 

in fear of meeting

 

 

its Rend.

 

 Dine

 

with me

 

in an coveted artifice's

vow. Galore,

but flashes crumble

the phylum of

my swords.

Stain the fires well.

And promises The Keep.

Of the tentacles veneer.

An Ancient Rite.

To burn marvels

out of hardened touch.

To cut the air around.

To pierce Reality

inside the bottom

of its Core.

Tender notions of rewardment

 

 

Lavender senses

 

seem to notion

 

new lotions -its motion?-

 

a locomotion

 

towards

 

 

perfection,

 

made as clay

 

from shards

 

of Oceans

 

floating

 

as comets,

 

dangling particles

 

of hope across

 

our dedicated

 

entitlements.

 

 

Another turn

 

-invisible-

 

of spirals

 

points towards

 

moments

 

of starlight.

 

 

Impulsive needs

 

to register

 

the occurrences

 

of whatever

 

Cosmos

 

whispers

 

into the fingertips

 

of my tendrils;

 

an all being

 

told me to wait

 

and cheer

 

for clustered pulses

 

of railing tensions

 

within a

 

store to see. 

I drift

 

apart

 

The Sea

 

and drip

 

as magma,

burning pits into

 

living plasmon

-we gotta try to make it glitch-

as the aspect ratios,

 

match intentions

 

of damnation.

The rations:

Emotions turned

 

to spirals;

 

overspent

of lumen

 

and cadence.

 

 

While the fumes lower us.

 

 Into sentiments of glory

and the pain of losing battles

on Yesterday's squadron.

A proud accomplishment

of dumb ameba, abeam

a beam of funny particles

 

extinct us...

A ritualistic trance

just dance, burnt,

turned now

 

into waves

 

of friction

in between us.

 

 

More choices

 

yet, here we eclipse

 

all vision.

 

 

Chasing lines across

a pasture of intangible

 

conscriptions,

my blades of grass

 

caressing

sense of self

 

and continuous

 

impairments, prepayments

of tools to forge a destiny

fit for Throne & Fortress.

The state of being

 

to create, it becomes,

a parody of itself.

 

My own portion

 

of the cosmos.

Waits and pulses

new partitives

 

of departure...

Thinking about, now,

the nothingness

 

that comes

behind the last

 

door that closes

 

once my scar screams open

and all ears are chosen.

 

 

Nevertheless,

seeing the solitude

of drifting giants

 

across and front

 

 

The Endless Ocean.

I drift

 

apart

as part

 

of chances

become ethereal,

once it's reached its prime.

 

 We have to forfeit to see, the material...

Becomes a sense of wonder.

 

On its own,

try to stay on grounds

while lighting the torch

down. Upside

 

The Chalice.

My Second Try

at malice...

 

A sword loses

 

its value

as it weights less

 

than choices

to speak a nature

 

into people's

comber. Encumbered,

all stages of psychosis

 

entangles lessons

 

from afar the temples

of polished marbles.

 

I reminiscence

across the

 

forbidden seas,

to travel along

on a lonely raft.

Solitude

 

holds secrets

that Matter wants

 

forbidden

 

for the sake of

 

ancient totems.

 

 

And the moths that can't wait

 

anymore...

 

 

Surely comes

 

unbecoming

 

a Monster that

 

devoured thousands;

 

more screams that spell

 

plethora,

 

burns my memories

 

like no atrocities

 

exposed as

 

  us try and try

 

to better the craft,

but pointless

 

it's to try

to attempt and turn

the shadows

into weapons

of mass

 

deconstruction.

Propaganda gallops

as the last Pagoda

 

lights

itself on flames

waiting for a solider

 

to come

bearing news

 

of settlement

instead of plague...

Holds the key

 

in your purple arms,

and lock to protect

us and as

they shall stall the

times to come

unguarded.

 

 

Prepare a feast for the

 

unfounded.

 

A treasure so

hidden, deep it crashes

the stability of Reality

 

once its cries

 

are heard again

across the Andes to the Alps.

A burning chariot

tints its fires, into darkened

shades of blueish green and

bloodshed

 

red,

 

try and

 

decipher

 

a codex made now flesh.

 

On the back of a turtle

 

traveling south

 

west of shores,

 

its hacks to machinery

 

forever unspoken...

For better terms.

 

Unleash your whip

 

and front them.

 

 

Stay still

 

to perceive

 

the cloisters

 

 

of crumbling souls

 

across the boardroom.

 

 

A ballroom

looses its carpet

once its stains

 

can't come clean about

 

- from whence, the water deep,

a prattle of mysteries, yet perceived -

but certifiably

can grab the cards

and try again

 

the newest spins.

All devotion

shouldn't go

 

to me,

there's holes in places

where The Timeline

forgot to clean its peace...

Try and come with me.

To shadier planes

of severest green...

 

 

Remember try

 

 to choose, correct

the assumptions

of wherever the floor

doesn't crack to show

its portion

 

of the teeth...

Ignore my eyes to let it

rip. Them apart,

from sides it seems

that they try to see you bleed.

 

 

More...

Become immortal

 

in a way.

They never seem to gleam.

.

.

.

Stage the perfect sentence.

And finally succeed-

 It's time to try and see. 

Brothers to ashes... Sisters to Oceans.

Can't you escape?

 

The forever

 

tightening clasp

of the weight of

 

emotion pulling down;

 

piling on

stranger feelings

 

re-discovered.

Like water's

 

flow, as the sky's

 

diamonds, crashing down

 

on most driest

 

of dunes.

 

Like mountain's breeze

 

on a lonesome

 

carabiner;

holding Life from Death,

 

praying choices for the

wanderer outside

 

 

our cavern.

 

 

 

Respite, again,

 

yet feel

 

my hunger...

 

 

Sometimes on

 

distant eyes,

 

a same melody

 

of ache.

Sometimes...

 

In your eyes.

 

 

The same sound

 

stuck on

 

motion, repetition,

 

a circumscription

 

of Yesterday's chains -stacking,

 

striking while

 

it's white hot-

 

rattling like

 

rattle snakes

 

drawing circles round

 

same careless steps.

 

 

 Step outside

your flesh and feel

defenseless.

Born again,

agape, and ready.

 

 

Fortuity plus

 

 new tries around

our macro-sphere

of chances painted as

countless jewels on

 

Nocturne's

azure dark canvas.

Stop portraying it so blue...

Bring new memories

 

with you

on Fort's.

 

Onward, forth comes

 

a new sense

 

of Reign.

 

 

And Rain.

Blessed be then

 

the followers

of stones,

 

unfolded.

Choose the next turning points.

Correct more than just your hues.

Undersell me

 

Heaven, naught,

gift not such forsaken

options to get lost.

Tis' the rhythm of New Ages

 

dawning closer and closer to

 

The Rise:

 

 

of every Ocean's

 

wrath,

 

carries out

 

new concepts

 

for the youth

 

to play with...

 

 

 Prepare thy sword now,

nor the shield of

unbuckled restrains.

Dark vapors

 

engulf our only

path to Horizon.

 

And Orisons...

 

 We shan't need them

 

to balance out

The Scales.

 

 

Grab

 

the prettiest mirror

 

and put it out of shame;

 

near by

 

your most deadliest

 

of candle snakes...

And let them sprawl you.

Make fists as you grab

crystal sands

 

that always seem

 

to get away,

 

when you chase them.

Contort abroad, your faces,

 

so they won't strangle.

 

 

You,

 

against your

 

Mind's best.

 

 

Can

 

you

 

escape?

 

 

Sever out the limbs

 

to make it trend.

 

 

Free fall

 

beneath the spirit

 

and let it fly.

 

 

 Learn how to make it roar

more honestly.

 

To let it soar...

 

 

You gotta learn

 

to Die

 

gracefully.

 

 

Over and over and

 

over, nevertheless,

 

a pathway does

 

comes throbbing.

 

 

Push everybody now.

 

Aside.

 

This time,

 

choose the best

 

time to carry it out.

 

 

Berries fall,

 

and no one's there

 

to stomp them.

 

 

 Engustment falls

 

as far out

 

engulfment breaks

 

entanglements

 

of Fray.

Parlor nigh

midnight's bell.

The moment's now

 

to come and rest.

So, can you get away?

The furthermore -insistent-

grasp. A chance

 

to see galaxies laugh,

 

as they dance

 

their final rites...

 

 

Choose your Sunlight.

 

Carefully.

 

And let it strive.

 

 

Pick your own

 

Darkness.

 

To make it shine.

 

 

And finally.

 

Step away.

 

 

Of the way.

 

Currently chosen.

 

 

 

Unless prepared...

 

To Forge My Light Again.

 

 

The implausible grasp of whatever that never had matter

 

 

Pick up

your teeth.

Polish 'em

 

green,

 

the pastures of longevity,

 

and

resist.

 

 

Always.

 

Insist.

Four.

The Empire's on the rise, for

it meddles the needle till'

 

we see it fit.

 

 

 

Closely

 

to our senses.

No remorse...

The gears keep turning

 

and

I never get to hear it grit.

Alas,

never enough

 

time

 

 to fully see it bleed...

Speak not to me

 

in tongues

that rescind

 

the brighter times.

Instead,

sever the space

 

in between

the clever, and the cleaver.

Days erode,

 

more than chances

 

available

to persist.

 

Even beyond

 

the continuous outbursts

of escalations,

and constant elation

 

of tribulations

 

 

and explosions...

 

 

 

As

 

the sand never feels

 

as loosened

 

as

 

it does today.

 

 

For,

 

as I sink, I see

 

the sky burning crisply.

 

And crystals -clear, is the vision-

 

upon the pyramid

 

of purple tainted glass...

 

 

I see ourselves

 

demise.

 

And I don't like:

 

the outcome of the shared

 

 

cards thrown loosely

 

as cracked shards

 

upon the table.

 

 

Again.

 

 

Strive yourselves apart

 

from this deal

 

to see the fireworks

 

 

 burn off molecules

midst their roar...

 

 

Walk away

 

and feel the hopelessness.

 

 

Upon the story

 

- o p e n s   u p -

 

and catch it shortened,

 

breathless

 

as it shoots itself backwards

 

in traverse... none?

The mood.

Unspoken.

 

Us.

The River

 

flows away.

 

Always

(in reverse)

only to restore

 

the next status quo.

 

 

When the stars sing grimly

 

melodies of comfort

 

and reprise.

Remind.

Myself

 

 

to pierce any cloud.

In order to see it

make me believe

 

its primal sense...

I sense

 

its wonders,

 

the scent of chaos

loosen up the air.

I taste the strains

 

of shadows,

tactile tendrils

 

of remorse.

Tactic sleeves, now broken.

Pockets almost empty,

not full, but bloodless,

and much lawless

 

love for the unprompted.

 

 

The unscripted...

 

 

Breaks open my rib cage

 

to taste the oceans.

Say your sorrows now

 

while there's seconds

 

of thunderous

 

asymmetry.

 

 

Never wait for them

 

-with unbolt shoulders-

 

for next strikes of Sun

to turn around

 

and face

 

the voiceless.

I aim to please,

 

grab the hammers

 

never again, heart broken

 

hope to ever see it  spotless.

 

 

Break enough particles

 

so that I can find my seat

 

 and wonder...

 

Now calmed enough

 

to wheeze,

 

 

take in all I can

 

from this breeze...

 

Feel it escape my grasp, until

 

 

it's time for  Me.

 

 

To stand up still.

 

And catch 'em

 

while it twirls.

I just wanna see it spin...

And show everybody

its multiple facades, shades,

of translucent shapes

now turned cordless

streams of hue,

 

and pain...

 

as they string

themselves as

newborn

 

braided fibers

of secure connections

and merciless luck.

It's now, time sure past  the wakened .

Know my pride well enough

 

to build new wings

 

that take me far.

 

 

So that I can find a peace

to build my sentience.

Pick up

my bloody teeth.

From the ground.

Jaded now.

Never fades

 

as background

for amendments.

Without...

 

 

 Finally.

 

Breaking out of shell.

 

Rising up the ancient storms.

To Fight

 My Sentence.