I am wrapped in her algid arms.
I am lost in her evocative glare.
I stand, environed by the Keres,
Those dilapidated demons.
Azrael, my craven shadow, clings
To me as a vulture stalks its prey.
Thanatos does each step possess
Forward into this acidulous air.
Fissured masks release languid screams
That fall upon pallid faces that have
Long since wilted in her Stygian womb.
Enervated laughs drone in mangy ears.
I stand on the periphery of this
Asphyxiating cistern. I ambulate
Across this sable field that shall
Become the executioner’s blade.
I, in sorrow forever live and swell.
A thousand pangs and more each hour.
Alone to wait and weep for misery's bell
And bleed in Hell's Stygian bower.
Marred by silence, marred alone,
Obsequies possessed and slighted.
Death in heart, death in home,
But, my love, redemption, sighted.
The beauteous Cherub, me heart adored,
From the arms of Nyx delivered;
My bliss forever with her restored
And from our love, death did slither.
Oh, great grandeur of thy visage, fair,
Thy impeccable beauty we descry
And at thy silvery glory stare.
Pure Goddess, I present to thee
My heart fractured and crimson steeped
And ask for thy loving eye to heal and free.
Requested by Dajena M and inspired by the aria from the opera Norma by Vincenzo Bellini.
In bower bright,
Young heart alight
In love and pain.
Drops of blood like rain
Fall perpetually from my heart
As I watch it break and fall apart.
Black is thy name.
Black is thy shroud.
If I were to open thee,
What shall be seen?
I can feel thy Black
Soul as I spread thy
Broken wings. I hear
Each hour chime thy
Dirge and call thy
Name. I shall spread
My shoulders' blades
And feel them rise
Against my tyrannical
Skin; as thou wouldst rise
In the charcoal heavens,
Perverting it with thy
Black flock; as The Morning Star
Rose against tyrant rule
So too shall my shoulders'
Blades against my suffocating
Skin. What shall we see if
They emancipated are, or
I, eviscerated? Shall I be
Black as thee beneath my
Flesh? My ribs, and hips,
Bones, and fingers now do
The same. My bruised flesh
Shall see not the day.
What shall we see when the
Rest of it falls away? A *****
Of bones that droningly cry,
As thou screech thy name?
I think I shall be like thee,
Black in heart and Black in
Blood. I am stillborn. I shall
No longer see the day.
I would like feedback and suggestions for improvement.
In the sea of dawn where all do well, the calm of his people has broken. Once-coddled infants, wrapped in shades, compose the cobble trail beneath their frantic gait. Ruination of palatial temples. Debauchery of the sage who is misshapen, misspoken. The serpentine begets dear tempest in steeplechase of sate. The incalculable herd of vermin across the earth cascade. Eyeless they stream, dripping roses, wont to asylum. Demented, as each ivory beam shatters.
They fall like infants beneath this mad promenade.
That hath sought
Found to bleed
And from torment wrought,
Thou dost despondent stand
And thy veins doth shed
And bury in desolate land
The tears that thou hast bled.
Thine heart's own verisimilitude
Beats within thy stiff breast
And all thee hath eschewed
And thy plot avoid lest
Thy count'nance rear'd
And thy misery form'd
Within all whom thee fear'd
And their joy harm'd.
Son of agony's lot,
From the pain within thee,
What horror hast thou begot?
*Quiet + ous, not to be confused with quietus
Blooden'd tears fall upon
Thy tender cheek.
A hollow chime is laid
Bare on swollen ears.
The blank canvas of thy
Body lies still like a mirror'd
Pool in aspect of night's
Algid face of innocence.
Under evocative, tragic skies,
In the fields of summer bright,
Lost in lamentation's hue
Thy death as sweet as roses' bloom.
All of hell is wrapped in ice
And lodged in our throats.
Sibilating we die, pale and
Cold like a thin rain that
Washes blood from
The summer fields.
Cacophony. A thousand
Shrieking crows produce
Our crepuscular sky.
We suffocate under this Stygian
Blanket, like a naked, stillborn
Fetus on the winter road.
Train me to walk; Stand my
Splintered feet On the fraying rope
- And watch me go.
This palpable air is an organism.
Each movement penetrates its wraith-like flesh.
Each step is a dagger into its still breast.
It weeps and bleeds. Beaten daily,
It is wont to anguish.
Weeping hourly, slowly it shall perish.
Each minute chimes its piercing toll.
Soft and dreary shall each minute roll.
From these whetted hooks shall it hang.
And from your hands shall come the pangs.
Wet and weary, cold and heavy shalt thou wake
To find the dripping body that thou did forsake.
What was lost in your Nyctophilic heart?
What life you brazenly stole.
What you take when you depart
And tear away from my soul
Mislaid, descried in sound recondite.
Quietus forward brought,
Found in your eyeless sight.
Agony of memories forgot.
Sable veins wrapped around fragile beings
Who, in wretched love lost,
Find their hearts fleeing
And to each other dyingly accost.
Black crow take us life and limb
Take us, take our heart, soul, and sin
And into my tender auricle skreigh your mordant dirge;
Consume the life that from these corpses you did purge.
I prithee, abolish this torment that I carry;
Take from this hell to darkness dreary.
For I am no sun nor soil nor seed
And from this heart I shall bleed.
I sit in toxic garden bower
Dreaming of my love, her lips, her hair.
A thousand tears in my eyes do sour,
And I dream of her face, her beauty fair.
I sit in sorrow profound
Weak and aching, dying, bleeding.
Death captured in recondite sound.
Begging for my love, weeping, pleading.
No hour of peace hath come,
No fortune arrives
Only despair, decay, and darkness glum,
And I wait for death to rise.
empty halls, blackened walls
scream agonising sentences,
trite, decadent remembrances
of atrophic assignations.
mordancy bled, **** fed,
ambling in broken cadences,
blind, lamenting abhorrences
of amaranth self abortions.
dead lives, deafening cries,
abating for audiences,
raising voided condolences,
waltzing to pointless abscissions.
eclipsed halls, barren walls:
prelude to atrophic assignations
If my love for thee
Was not so profound,
You would hear not in me
Sorrow's baleful sound;
For as myself must flee
From this dark shore,
Conceiving visions of agony,
Of our love from each other torn.
Inspired by my favourite aria which is from the Ecco Dorinda il Giorno cantata by Giovanni Battista Bononcini.
Death casts her spell
Madness me overtakes
Misery within does swell
And Hell's lyric she spake
what death screeching and incomparable will possess our feral skies bursting fissured eyes in stygian oceans of sound
what hell pharaonic and incestuous will enwomb us pyrophorically screeching into the crepuscular welkin
plutus' now plutonian name is laid out before us in the amaranthine caverns of a conflagrant mind
a resignation to wallow in the acrimonious sea of the harsh torrent of life perpetually thrashing in retrogression through the stinging rain
as shadows splatter in atramentous mirth gaily dancing in the shimmering waters of a decrepit planet poisoning itself
an oasis of debauchery grotesque agony crying through its darkened halls that screams out for liberty
Solitude, no pain more bitter nor sweet,
Clings, through heights adored and sorrows deep,
Forever with me alone and steep
Amongst mountains bright,
Yet black amongst valleys dry of blithe and light.
No fear unknown, no death afar,
Nor smile estranged, lucent as this star,
For I know no further bliss nor despair
As sable and as shines,
But no greater desire than for my
Life to forever mingle with thine.
Not now, nor past, nor future shall anguish
Prevail in piceous depths betwixt Hell
And Heaven bright whence He shall dwell,
Despotic, casting voices to perish
Where I, in sombre woe, conceive visions
Of His tyrant reign. Grotesque agony
Has been wrought by His seat, high, joyfully
Quaking the decrepit Earth. Gaily
Does His crown manacle our once free Souls.
From death once wrought verisimilar chimes
Of a nation brought to glory’s righteous
Heart, but now pharaonic cries tread grim
From the Second with such semblance of high,
Righteous Sovran and now hath released His
Ministers of Vengeance upon us whole.
In atramentous grief, descrying the
Bright cynosure in golden sleep beckon,
The Heav'nly Muse my soul does possess.
Thy hair brightly burns as the fire in thine eyes.
Ardent lips kiss my fissured heart
As I remain blind to thy frail lies.
Beside thee, writhes the demon of thy soul;
Acidulous words leave thy tongue
And I prepare to plummet whole
Into the golden sleep of thine asphyxiating air.
Tears bleed as I follow
Thy seraphic beauty fair.
As I close my eyes and wade into the quietus of this dream,
Tilt my head back and begin to fall,
I put all my cherished hopes in thee.
Inspired by Mozart's Davidde Penitente cantata.
We hide and nurse our dilapidated
Bodies from the blistering day.
Come night we tear into our
Tender flesh in mad dismay.
"Peel away thy carnal mask.
Punish thyself in blissful blows
That sinks deep below thy bones."
We are lost in this atramentous esplanade,
In perpetual suffering for our evil, white god.
After all has ended what will be left?
A solitary weeping figure?
A pair of fissured eyes that wilt in the dark?
Or the vermillion tears that fall upon the
Heads of budding roses supported only
By their feeble necks?
The death of the angels is marked by
Grand symphonies lost and redundant.
Stentorian cries in the heavens shall
Wake the dead oceans and cover the earth.
Pallid faces, hollow eyes and cold lips fall.
What will we be witness to?
What will be left?
a l f l t a e f r o a l l h e a h s e i n d e p d p w a h r a w t n w i e l c l i b d e l g e d f o t l a n s i o r l u i r t s a t r a y o w r e h e t p g i n i f t i a g l u i r b e i a s p e a w i e r i o d f e f l i a s p s d u n r a e d l e o y c e s k t i h l a t n w i h l t n i n a t r h t e a d h a t r s k e t o h r s a e w i d o v o i l e b l r f l r m o n m s t r h a e e s t u t m a m h e t r l f l i a e f l n d o s p c u a e c h o t p s h d o e n h y a t f h o g u n i s d a d n u d b s h e r s i o e r k d e i t n r g o c r p s w p s p u n l y o r t y e u d b o e c d i c h e r o r l t e s u l p b e r f c u s l k a c r e s n y d k e w a t h s o u f f t f h o e c a n t g e l u s n i d s e m r a t r h k i e s d s b t y g r i a n n d b s l y a m n p k h e o t n l i e k s e l a o n s a t k a e n d s r t e i d l u l n b d o a r n n t f s e t e u n s t o n r t i h a e n w c s i n e r t r s h n e i a h v l e t l e d k r a w o t t h r e a d i e n a m d s d n n a a e r c e o v e o h c t o a l k t w y d m e d r n e a t n s i e l h p e s h t r f t e a e w p o a l l o i h d s f s a e c y e e s n d o n e a h d t l e o g c n s i p y i a l r l f a r f w o h p a e t d l n l a n d i t w s e s
w o h t g a e t l m w e h i c f b t l a e
i e n i o l o w n o g l e o r k h n y o m w n h i a g t i n a n m o w r w o h r o i d a d p y p l e t a e r t i o b u e i q a s m a e m y a e s g k w i h y a d t r s l u e o f y t o n f m i e r t e n m i a l i g n e s u h n t s s e i e a n l i o l l s a t i r n a e s r e a a o e f b l r c o s k w r e o n m r i g r n r i o h r t s b o u n t n t o u t b h s i r n o g g r r r o i w m s c m l n e e a k r o e r r a b l f l i o a f m i o s t a h e e g s l a i n n i t i t n y s o o u l r d n y e i e n s g e u y s e n s q i u a i m e e t r l e y d m r f o o w t n f i e n l g i s n m t y h a o h l w l k o s w l a i m e a s i m k a n m o a w n i o e t w b h o o i t a r m o a r w e h p a p t i a d h o a w l r l i o k m n a o i w i t s I a n t h h w i w s p o o n o k l o r f s e c g a n r o l l e o t h n u i e
a h l t i a v e d
y t o u u c r h e a s s a t r u t p e i t d
If anyone can decipher the message(s) of this writing, please message me because I'd love to talk with you. g s h è é t d r a a l z i a a t
I no longer know what I am or who I appear to be.
I am a mask; the rest of me remains unseen.
Lost in a sea of broken mirrors,
But nothing grows clearer;
All I am is the glint in your dying eyes,
Quietly drowning in my hollow lies.
I know not who I am or what I do;
All I know is in this pool of scarlet hue.
Inspired by the aria from Mozart's Le Nozze di Figaro.
e d r e a d t h c s a s e t f s h i e l r s m p o e r l f l m s a e d y n e s y s m e o e v s e o r l t c a d k l e u s m o i w s t e r a y w e i h t y h m i o n d t o e g s a w s e s l a l a p n d n h i e f l d l n s l a y r i a c s e h e s t p h a g k u e s o i r b h i t l u a c t a i h n t g r w a e d y d r i e v p e r a e l h t e a h n t w d o c n o k i d l i d w o h
What must it be?
What must it be that doth
Pour from those cracked casements,
Those scarlet striped pools?
What must it be that doth cause my
Sodden mind and ground?
That doth cause me, in darkness,
Does it match the dripping stain
On the shard of glass that has
Burrowed itself into my hand?
Did this shard destroy the
Mirrored surface of those pools?
Or perhaps embed itself into that
Beating ***** inside of you.
Does it match the glass itself,
Whose fissures now grow?
Did I remove those casements
And leave nothing but the black
Pits behind? Or perhaps I tore
That structure apart in fear of
What you might find.
What must it be that doth
Drain form those dark globes,
Those black doll-like spheres?
What must it be that doth
Shovel atop my cringing body?
That doth implant the nails into
My buried crib?
So sweet is the raz'r of thy tongue
That hath from my flesh stole
My vigour young
And my heart made cold
By thy caustic speech;
Off thy lips shot,
Pluck'd my heart's petals each
And cause my veins to clot.
So sweet is the torment wrought
By thy tongue sharp
And my heart stopp'd
From thy lungs' wretch'd harp.
I have begun a series of poems that are inspired by Italian opera arias. This is the first, inspired by Monteverdi's Aria Amorosa.
With death weaved in her hair she weeps;
With sorrows stitched in each lip she bleeds.
What woes quiver within her tender flesh?
What joys fester in relentless agony there?
The wicked sunset sheds
Impious light upon her pallid face.
She captures death in a glare
And I am cast into the
Ravenous arms of sorrow.
I must forsake my love for
Love's sake, not love for
Human heart, soul, nor flesh,
Yet a love black as hellish
Night. I flee in dread of her.
Now death, our virtuous mother,
Arrives in Stygian splendour.
Her head adorned with
Dead king's crowns.
I am lost in blissful woe.
A rose wilting under
The incessant lashings
Of the moon kisses
Her heart with black lips
And my soul is forever left
In the weeping dawn.
Rest, rest now beneath my feet.
Take comfort in your scarce heat.
The grey cross erected in your name.
Blackens now, and erodes away
Beneath this stinging rain.
Oh icy claw that grips your heart,
I long for my body torn apart.
Black crow, perched in tree,
For this I beseech thee.
I am no stranger to this bloodless air.
I, in shrillness, would scream
As my lungs did rip and tear.
I stand above your sodden grave,
And shall no longer by life enslaved.
Death, death do conspire;
Transform my black, funeral heart
And wilting sadist mind into my pyre.
How did I know that her every dart
That cut through the air
And find passage to my heart
Would close my eyes from life's stare?
Based on lines from The Dethe Of Syr Charles Badwin by Thomas Chatterton.
— The End —