Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Bjørn O Holter Apr 2014
A suicide of my best sides,
a homocide, a matricide.
Occupied in nursing
self-inflicted wounds inside
my heart, my soul, my final goal
is near. I tear with nailless claws
at where the door I used to know
was before I tore the hole inside
and so I tried to justify
the single, once perfected try
to go, to fly, escape outside
these walls, these halls
these calls I hear
are tearing at my soul, I lay
and lie and cannot cry.
I swear and curse in sour lines,
but noone knows the pain
experienced inside.
something i scribbled down in Innsbruck one night during Illnath's European Tour in 2003. Mainly just playing around with words. It was later used as an intro in the song named "Chrysalis" by 54, another project I played with in 2004.
Bjørn O Holter Apr 2014
Trapeses strung on Shakespare lines;
vivid like the richest wines.
The arts unite and intertwine
in stunts of cruel dimensions.
Trembling hands in steady hold,
tears behind a mask so bold.
Go for silver, go for gold;
the thirty piece temptation.

Hazard games in clairvoyants’ house,
a faceless crowd he can’t arouse.
-Another jester, another Faust
or another fallen angel?
Unimpressed, the shroud of frost
between him and his viewing host
blurres his polished contraposte
to an unknown, misplaced stranger.

“A twist and spin performed so well
from a drape-framed prison-cell
a droplet from an empty well
to myriads of eyes.
A face so wet with silver tears
behind the smiling mask he wears,
like gems behind a dragon’s lair,
drop diamonds where he cries.”

Irae, the jester of the court,
the one and only of the sort,
knows his tricks are running short,
and whispers; “come what may”;
All comes down to his final jest,
the only unseen joke that’s left;
his very own zoolock-life-theft,
and thus then, dies Irae.
Thus dies Irae was written back in 2003 for the band Philomel's Epitaph, but as the album was put on hold and the project eventually abandoned, it remained a poem in its original form.
Bjørn O Holter Apr 2014
Once upon a time was a girl named Candy
Sweet as a flower and loved all so much.
She was granted a wish by a fairy named Mandy
that turned into candy all that she touched.

The town was filled with the sweets of Candy
the rocks and the houses and bicycles too.
Candy would say that the world was just dandy!
parading the streets in her candy suede shoes.

But everything ends and also for Candy
when all that she touched would turn into sweets.
Realising a candy-lover's not handy
she walked alone on candy-cobbled streets.

And loneliness came like a night over Candy
crying skittles she soon went insane.
She cursed the wish she was granted by Mandy
as she crumbled and cracked like a candy cane.

For the rest of the year the children ate candy
the rocks and the houses and bicycles too.
The children would say that the world was just dandy
and the last sweet they shared was a candy suede shoe.
this poem has been sitting in one of my notebooks for quite some time without making much fuzz. I just remember it as something fun to write in a nursery rhyme-style and with a cute and simple rhyme scheme.
Bjørn O Holter Apr 2014
Ravenous crows hover above the altar on the forest floor,
watching, peering, proud but fearing. Circling down more and more

And I recall you running, I recall you hide.
The heart you would give was invisible inside.
The laughter running like a silver creek,
where can it be now, is it hidden in their beaks?

If I've lost you I don't know
but your heart is my own, though it's cold as stone.
I still can feel you here my dear
and your lidless they eyes can't but stare.
-Speak of your emerald eyes and the pearls they cried,
your ruby smile and your obsidian lies;
It's all collected here and it's all so strong.
Not a part is missing, not a jigsaw puzzle-piece is gone.

Well enshrined here inside
my sacred, my secret museum of art.
Holy, enthroned, precious, my own,
one of a kind; your heart.

And as they're soon to feast, these grey clay-coloured beasts
land carefully and hide next to where you lie.
They anticipate, then they thank their fate
and start pecking at your thighs and what once was where your eyes were.

And the blood stained brittle beaks part in thanks and shriek
with confession in their cries.
We all gave in, it was no sin;
-We love you, the crows and I
This was a song released with my old band Illnath. He original poem is somewhere in my yellowed books, and this is rewritten from the official lyric. I'll try to dig up the original (and better) poem in the future. The music video can be found on a YouTube search "illnath ravenous crows"

— The End —