It’s been some long few days, with darkened skies
The sun and his colors doth not shine.
He has fallen, and burst, into a fiery blaze,
Purging all that was before and laying ash over sown crops

Stone giants now stand tall, shielding the fire gods’ rage,
I look up to them and inspire the radioactive air under their stalwart’s gaze,
The casted shadow now spreads and cutting cold now settles,
As the flames subside and a new frost strengthens the scaffolding of the future.

I keep the moon of soot under my frenzied eyes and raise a new temple,
Of a new fire god, one that might wash ancient and blackened soot
And cleanse the world of such cold and think beyond oneself,
So that hearts can rest easy…

Pitch black, no sounds
Feel the shaking of the ground,
My mind, it feeds,
On the silence that it needs.

Looking back, no reward,
Only walking, I stay aboard
For the present, I shall cherish,
With the handles, of its doors, I shall perish.

My mouth, rarely talks,
And mistakenly, spits rocks.
My ears, decide on their own,
And my demons, in them, they moan.

My heart, longs for you,
They look for the future that I sew.
They ache, with such pain,
Only you could leave such a stain.

A door, just opened,
The darkness, being faltered,
I am illuminated, by a figure
Blinded, by her flicker,
I stand up, and walk through the ice
We embrace, and step into paradise.

"Out of dark matter the light will form; every trial has an expiration date."

Unbearable dark,
the kind that's pitch black;
inescapable.*
Fierce and formidable chaos
consumes everything.

On nights like these
I long for a piece of light,
peace of mind,
a sliver of moonlight
to gleam in the gloom;
an ending to long suffering.

To find shelter
in the open arms of hope,
uplift my soul,
I will cast my burdens
like stones into the riverside,
watch them sink out of sight.

Feast my weary eyes
on the bulb of fireflies,
let my mind break free
of impossibility,
explore the astral plane of dreams;
far from view
of obscene reality,
safe and secure,
knowing this too shall pass.

I will escape the empty glass,
elude the shadows overcast;
outgrow the dead grass.
No longer outcast
I will Breathe
and bloom again at last.
Outlast, the storm.

In the hour of Twilight, let us burn,
Let us burn with passion
As our blood boils and our hearts turn,
As we melt in one-another, morbidly…
                                     …in a romantic fashion.

Flesh pressed against flesh, I do remember;
The secret lips of a demon so tender,
And our bodies on top of a mound,
Twi lively corpses besottingly…
                                   …carving a new wound.

And let them be irradiated by our macabre ardour.

Slowly succumbing to the burning tranquility,
My mind dreads on these moments without you.
A dark and cold sensation strikes me with agility,
Turning my burning heart ashen, cold, as fast as you…
                                                                         …ignite it again.

Is this Nirvana? A place avoid of everything but pain and you?
Or do I have monsters inside without which I cannot live?
Without which I cannot be human? What can I do?
Can I only wait and suffer through this calmness and give…
                                                                            …my scars time to heal?

Smoking at the mirror, sulking in a brittle rage,
One so strong, that it easily turns the page.
Without even blinking, I spit powerful words,
Cutting at my ethereal flesh like swords,

Hoping however, I will never run out of mettle,
Hoping the cuts will petrify, letting them settle,
As a great red crack in the skin, for me to wonder
If my swords have risen only from a simple blunder.

My consternation renders me catatonic,
Only the clash of fingers on the keyboard makes me tonic…
While her, she brings me to the doors of Heaven,
From where we drown the world under in a sweet Armageddon.

Like an animal of the night, my wolf spirit chases,
An exquisite insanity, one in which I revel,
A slow prey with poisonous blood and sweat, with three faces
That, when caught, it whispers to me frailly, in hope to bedevil.

One face spits drunk and boiled spillage,
This one barks passionately without end.
The stock face of an accepted devilry, an advantage,
And an addictive **** that it lets out, a disadvantageous blend.

The other two look normal, but they rarely make sounds,
The deranged smoker is a thinker, a dying fool,
While the one in charge listens, teaches and knows,
While it fights with the other two.

The prey never runs away, but it sickly comes back to taunt my soul.
It tries to enthrall me with its black art, knowing my weaknesses by heart,
Sometimes I catch the prey, to which I whisper: “Feel my spit, black like a coal,
Never come back, you better hide, you haven’t seen yet my crazy part.”

And with a magical schism the prey splits
And hungry for adrenaline, my spirit chases them