The life of a poet lives on
through all their poems,
but the day I do depart,
I want to be cremated.

I will entrust family
and some fellow poets
to let my ashes sink
into some deep black ink.
And I'd want them to write
the stanzas I secretly saved
just for the occasion.

That way
they can say
that I put
all my heart
and my body
into poetry.
Literally.

My soul,
on the other hand,
would live on happily
as an eternal poet
having fun rhyming
while everyone's crying.
(and I'd wish they'd stop.)

I want to hold the moon, in the stillness.
As a newly healed being, forgetting his illness.
With transcendent secrets, long lost, and unheard.
Converge with the earth, my body returned.

It's not just the glow that my soul truly seeks-
But the calling of a gnosis, at its brilliant peak.
The kind that would nurture without word or touch.
With pulses divine, surging through me in flux.

I want to push oceans, form the tides Mighty sway.
As nova's light the way, even brighter than the day.
Not where I am dying, but drifting sublime.
Through a cosmic stimulation of emotions and mind.

To hold the moon is to be as the dark,
The Infinite void with no ending or start.
To weave through galaxies in quantum ascent.
To be untethered, unmeasured, and unbent.

For there's a place where echoes of gnosis still call.
Where darkness is divine, as it stands without fall.
For when all existence comes to end, as we know it.
Darkness not only lives but will thrive by the moment.

The stars told a secret, the divine know our depths.
Our intentions are gold. We're not at fault for our steps.
I want to walk where quantum waves ebb and flow,
And merge with the calm, only the moon has ever shown.

To hold the moon is to live as the night.
No longer chasing myths of a misguiding light.
To rest with the shadows, unobserved in their allure.
My failing charred heart, reborn by the nights cure.

♦ Đerek Λbraxas ♦

I want to hold the sun, as a flame.
As a shroud that no longer needs his name.
Devalues his origin, and the costs incurred.
I'll dissolve in the furnace, my body deferred.

It is not the burning that I truly seek,
But a quiet surrender, at a radiant peak.
The kind that evaporates matter aligned,
In myths of forever, leaving time behind.

I want to watch as light rays become dust.
As suns burn hollow, saturate and then rust.
Not where I'm dying, but morphing sublime.
A process dissolving emotions and mind.

To hold the sun is to grasp at gold.
Abandon the flesh, that's grown tired and cold.
To slip through the cracks where mortality turns.
And breathe in the silence as lungs start to burn.

For there is a place where the ashes belong.
Where shadows are living and scream with a song.
Where the afterlife is not just a realm I'll behold,
But a quiet ascension to a gnosis untold.

With stars I share a secret. "The Divine are forgiving".
Their quantum doorways are their gift to the living.
I want to walk through, with that luminous flow.
My transmogrification into the unknown.

To hold the sun is to become its light,
To no longer struggle in the dark cosmic fight.
To emerge as the stardust that I know is pure.
Lay the illness of a life in defeat by Deaths Cure.

♦ Đerek Λbraxas ♦

hear me out, I have a plan,
increase profits while investing
as little as we possibly can
we’ll create an image of them and call it “success”
to give an image of their life prospects

create a worldwide obsession
with this thing
we’ll call it “money”
while giving it to nobody

ask their children what they want to be
make productivity be their life expectancy
the established illusion of worth in gold
that's what they'll be told

we know of basic human needs
we’ll enforce a new one
the need of greed
we'll start with banks
ideas of worth beyond a number
and that's where we will build this power

we’ll have struggles remain to keep the profit
have to keep them on their toes
keep them suffering to work this hard for nothing
we’ll decrease the risk of profit loss
just take their space for genuine thought

curiosity creativity new ideas
required for innovation or solution
but we must prevent the risk of them
climbing out of desperation
we’ll keep them busier than ever
no time for self, expression
then give them   j u s t   a hint of having life
be easier through efficiency of trickery

here, use this tool for the sense of creation
instead of painting, do computer visualisation
inner-most dreams an instant donation
provide relief in the trusting belief
that data collection won’t make them bleed
until we know their every thought
replace them through devices they bought

the computer program of information recycler
have them put the information of their lives there
self-improvement program grows to know
be better than them at building growth
we have their minds replaceable
have them learn to feel incapable
we keep this plan from falling apart
through the simple act of having them
devalue their own art

we’ll create this system for communication
interaction instant gratification
with price tags make the image of enough
to portray they’ll pay just buy enough stuff
the image they help to spread
like catching lullabies
to help them fall to sleep
they’ll spend their years avoiding fears
of creating less than perfect portrayal
we’ll take real away make them crave
creating ads with pictures of self, betrayal

for power over their perception
that they can’t see or take part in
the currency through algorithm
meant for us alone
overpowered mind control
control over their lives
paid for by the companies
wanting in on changing minds to hives

what then is the point, they’ll wonder
murmuring through illusioned slumber

we’ll show them that there are exceptions
motivating using tales of hope
disguise it all as piles of gold

we know of basic human urges
we’ll play the limits through diversions
game of myth
hush
whispers
of salvation
because
“surely there is a way”
“if I keep working hard”
“if I have hope I will prevail”

the reward for lifetime servitude
we promise them aging life
end-of-life rescue

they’ll blame themselves
for all their curses
as we take away
their caring nurses

after just a few years
creating the fears
of everyone else on earth
we will finally rule reality
at long last we’ll own their worth

the fear of age and the fear of death
will be cured through dying breaths
basic driving forces and human urges
now in power
over all their lives through
the contents of their knockoff purses

~Especially For our own poet, Immortality~

we all dream for a few seconds,
mostly when we are younger,
like, say, s e v e n t e e n, that
something, we might be~come,
known for, perhaps even believing
our names|our poems might be read,
a hundred and one years on…

periodic, episodic,doesn’t last long,
though it
does get repeated every
now and then, and  then again,
each time, the notion disappears
faster, sure, better things to dream
about, better hopes more closely
held, tangible tasting, envisioning,
deserving for intensely scheming,
using that double edged
s~word,
realistic,
and even, in the
planning, schemin’ dreamin’
always a nagging fearin’
can
they really
could come true

others fantasize,
, that class of crazy dreamers,
standing at an airport gate,
hear a call out your name,
and someone will,
from behind, tap you on the
shoulder and asks, shyly

hey, you wouldn’t be that person
who writes
poetry on HP?

unlikely of course, odds against,
whoa,
even worse
than winning a lottery jackpot prize

but then again, surprise always
favors biting you on,
well, them tender places,
and a day comes,
when  a younger poet, amazes, takes the time,
makes the effort to look up your older
writs, languishing in bits of bytes on an
unknown server, aged  graying from
relentless time,
and the absence of eyes,
being read, thereby re~realized,
revitalized,
visualized, inhaling light+ air,
away wiping
the dust and webs of  suffered mortality
and, that silly notion escapes it grave,
and you writer, run into an encounter
with an old fantasy, resurrected and
you too reread that old poem, issuing s
voluble ****!, not half bad, and restoring
that momentary potent potentiality of
it
surviving past the beyond date of expiry,
and then, another is read, & another,
swallowing a pill stronger
than a a Doctors’s best gurss forecast
of 20 more years you’ll live,
for an actualized prophecy now
is tangent tangible,
like mouth to mouth-resuscitation
and you, unusually,
think once more about tomorrow,
exhaling the headyatmosphere
of a rainy forest,
well appreciating, laughing at the future,
for here, she has shared but penned
but twenty four original poems,

me,
thousands open and disguised, and my newly formed grin is now for her,
for now my breath and its baggage of a fantasy, may
be coming her
reality realized?

and I will surely still be an
avid cheerleader
for her, for you, a
devoted
follower-in-absentia

Happy birthday dear
For you have taken a ride
And made the sun yours
You got close
You made your way round
And still you didnt burn
As if you possessed
Some sort of immortality
For the world wouldnt spin
If it wasnt for your might
Appreciation consumes
Every single person
Within your presence
I’m so proud of you for making it
Another year
For you have come so far
The sun with forever be yours.