This I ask thee, oh eyes of tears.
Since when did you weep so?

The rumbling of the abyss whose dark did wake,
The mumbling forest folks whose skin did rot,
For the curse of the ancient god whose dread did wake,
The rumbling of the abyss.

The cries of that child beloved by lies,
The fears of that girl ecstatic and fake,
And that boy who could not help but weep,
For the child’s crying.

For where else did their falsehood lie,
Where else does their aspirations die,
Except in the rites and sights,
Where their falsehood has sighed?

This I ask thee, oh my eyes,
Since when did you weep so?

This incessant beating of the human heart.
This increasing bleating of the voiceless other.
When wake I do from the dreams I mark'd.
Shall it all return, as did the ashes of my maker?

This caricature of unbound madness,
This cacophony of untethered voices.
Pain does it inflict me so, that one
wishes to wallow only in sadness..

The language of love incessant,
Not stopping, never stopping,
To not ever know the end of things,
    Ever.
Inhuman projection of the soul,
Unto particulates of unsought desires
What woe it is that they cast upon us that we cannot see past the fog,
Lies upon lies they built the majesty upon.

The silvery lake of mercurial thoughts, afloat midst the misty isle.
To look in is to die a thousand deaths and live a thousand more lives,
To gain knowledge beyond man and gods alike,
    Ascendant.
And no one has gazed upon its shallow depths.
The simplest answer of all question:
That one is many and many is one, and
Unto a multitude rests a singular thought where all minds converge.

Thoughts unthought and minds unwrought,
To not know whether knowing is well,
Seeing that emptiness before these eyes,
    Hollowing.
The crazed void with no beginning nor end.
To find something midst the nothing must be quite the task.
To find oneself midst this madness also,
Must surely be a task undone.

The singsong voice cannot hear my cry.
The bars collapse along with their pry.
In dark, we stand 'gainst the test of time.
In night, we weep to the vict'ry of this mime.

"What colors will you weave to occupy forever?"
What weep, what woe, that this is the whole.
Linger in the darkness with eyes that foretold.
In the abyss, without company, ever and never.

Poetry is a window to the heart.
Poetry is like affectionate cries.
Poetry is my love, my language, my despair.
Let it be known, then, that
Poems shall be plentiful and abundant in this book of notes.
If nothing else, if not art, not music, then poetry is my soul.

And to you, the outsider, the trespasser,
Let it be known, if you are beholding my essence, then, that,
This is my soul, my palace, my poetry
And I demand thy respect.
But,
Still I pour out my waters for you, my blood for you,
It is only right that my vessel be empty and hollow.

Allow me to cast my being into these molds and colors,
That they crystalize into an effulgent matrix,
Constituting all that I am and could ever be.

Hateful ignobility wrought upon us these
Blissful fragments of tormented peace.
What shall be said, to our high priest,
"King!" Amassed before the lowly beast.
Unfiltered foolishness rid us our dream
"Avaunt! There is no place for you to bring."
Wherefore betwixt the serpent's gaze malicious,
Bloomed a thousand vibrant fruit precocious?

Anon I cast this body ablaze, amaze!
No ceasing tongue could me more grace.
Writhing agony upon the stakes makes
Not a sight inticing of my craves.
Heresy upon heresy, to dare invade
This earthly domain we've made.
The fig tree bears no fruit, thus let it
Be jilt upon the basket we knit.

Still are adored these little green branches,
And their pink buds, yet undone, too, matches.
This twilight over the hill, dusks before dark,
This half light erelong, stars unmarked.
Forsooth the answer ought come, but
Wilt it be made known to such a mutt?
Curtains will close, roses will wither,
Wherein will we know to go thither?

This mud, tis cold. This grass, tis old.
And there's nothing else in sight.

This is a cruel world, this you cannot reject.
    For I have lived one thousand lives, I have seen the infantile self enough.
    Yet it would please God none to grant me salvation.
    Still in earth, I have tasted the punishment of the forest of self destroyers.

I am the name of the God above, in me is the eternal forgiveness.
    Yet what cruel tricks I play on my self.
    For playing God is not in my nature.

----

From a cold sweat I wake from dreams of fear and wrath, to the darkness that embrace me.
To this, I hate.
From this discomforting bed I rise, in the consuming black around, forward to another path.
To this, I despise.
Nameless tears yearn to see the light of night, guided to the mirror that reveals my flesh.
To this, I cower.
Ripping flesh from bones, I dream of the day coming forth that would rid me of my corporeal being.
To this, my beloved self, I yearn.

----

What lies ahead? “Ruin.”
What ruin? “Ruin of your soul.”
What soul? “…”
Answer me. “…Sorry.”

The sins I committed are not my own.
This meat stuck upon my Self is not I.
What have I become?
In the wake of the beast.
Another victim to complete and utter destruction?

Complete and without hope and in the depth and before the door,
    I am.
In the inconceivable form of the flesh, through veins of blood and strains of nerves,
    I was.
Through and through without Self and with neither dreams nor ambitions,
    I shall be.
Yet ascension is the worse fate one could give to oneself.
    I.

----

I am the name of the eternal night, singing quietly under the glory of the moon.
    I am the name of the universe.
    I am the name of the dream you call living.
I am the love that permeates the air, in dissonance without any understanding of self.
    To permeate is not to be rid of identity.
    To permeate is not to be like everyone else.
I am the desire that desireth itself, the love that love loving.
    To desire is not to indulge.
    To desire is not to expunge.
I, to love loving yet not loving, in loving do I love loving loving, yet loving is not in my nature.
    To love is not lovingly giving.
    To love is not lovingly taking.

I am the name of the eternal night, the everlasting impression of you.
I am the name of the universe, the disquieting grandeur.
I am the name of the dream you call living, the dream of dreaming.
I am the name of the love of loving, the longing of connection.
I am the name of the existence of existing, the paradox of permanence.
I am the name of the hopeful reverie, the approaching daybreak.
I am the name of the perfect hatred, the emotion directed at the synthesis.
I am the name of the prison of flesh, the rememberer of the soul.

Carry on, ye who carry my name, and lose you of your fear.
    Say out the prayer of the final day.
And, at last, upon the souls of ye who yearn for freedom, let there be etched:
    Angel of Noire, the multitude of perspectives.