aviisevil

aviisevil 1d

the fool

And the fool—
wide-eyed, swaddled in pink dusk
and thorn-sick roses,
suckling on the myth of hearsay.

Sketching sunsets across barren fields,
he swings the shackles—
wars, blood-grit, and the stale breath of ghosts—
mistaking the fires for a beatitude.

It is easy to be the culprit
in April’s fickle winds—
no hands reaching for winter’s ruins,
left frostbitten and mute,
like chapters pressed between the pages
of dust and dusk.

The fool speaks no tales of the world—
a bystander, heart ajar,
flinging wide the doors, the windows,
begging the seas to split.
He mouths prayers not his,
sings borrowed hymns—
and does it all,
anyway.

For that is the fool—
played, preyed upon
by the cruel and the cunning,
their feast of him
a ceremony of abandon and appetite.

Until dawn splits the sky—
and the world,
picked clean to bone-white skeleton,
turns, hungry, toward another joy.

aviisevil 3d

the city held me

the city held me in her arms
and told me not to look—

close your eyes,
she whispered,

don’t let your silence
spill into the streets.

let the birds sing,
let the lovers live
and dance.

there is no need here
for someone like you,

with your night
and broken bones,

your silence that grows
roots.

go quietly,
let the light pass you by—

we are a place of the living,
and you are made
of yesterday.

aviisevil 7d

dream error

I saw a dream
in the sky—

silver clouds
poured through
the cracks

tiny birds circled
the carcasses

of toiling bone
and flesh

and here, in
my sleep

the streets
bustled with
chatter—

the many lights
mixing with fumes
and laughter

and the city
like a heartbeat
kept pulsing on

without
me

aviisevil May 6

toiling

If you must know—
know that I am not the sun.
Shadows have settled
deep in my bones,
like old tenants
who no longer pay rent
but still stay.

My thoughts turn to thorns,
curling inward
until I bleed
from the inside out.

My whispers scorch my breath,
my silences
scream in tongues
no one hears.

Night is the song I seethe—
a lullaby laced with rust,
and every dream
is a bruise
I wake to.

There is darkness
in my veins,
not the poetic kind—
but the heavy kind,
the kind that forgets
how to move,
how to feel warmth,
how to want the morning.

And some days,
I forget
how light ever
found me.
How I ever
let it in.

aviisevil May 5

Untitled

It is the month
of the bluest skies

when lovers bloom
beneath the yellow sun

like trees brushed green
once more

They dance freely
in the summer wind
barefoot
on soft earth

unbothered by
the seasons yet to
come

as if autumn
were but a rumor

carried quietly
in the hush
between

aviisevil May 4

puerility

nothing comes
to mind—
only years
long gone

through snow
and rain
in summer’s fire
and winter’s hush

laughter echoed
tears fell
mountains stood still

seas we crossed
films we lived
and all our
innocence

now just stories
letters
memories

how deeply we yearn
for what we
already hold

aviisevil Apr 26

ruins hanging

to wake with
a heavy heart,
sinking into
the bed sheets —

battling
the abyss,

the long days
yet to come
gathering dust
in the corners
of this room.

sunlight spills,
scattering ruins
dangling by threads;

storms rise,
rage,
and disappear.

shadows linger
in the folds
of the curtains,

the clock ticks —
a slow, tired drip
into the silence.

hope is a moth
beating itself
against the window,

a soft persistence
against an endless sky.

still, the body breathes,
still, the heart remembers
the shape of light.