Ever have they dwelled in that sickly city,
That even the flowing ice avoided
As it crept down from the heights,
Devourving all in its path.

Among evil shadows,
Did they practice their craft.
In the primordial conurbation
Of forsaken Yir.

Since time immemorial
They have met in silence.
Beneath Yir's dark obelisks
And the backdrop of jagged mountains.

Many believe them necromancers.
It is even said in myth ,
That they were the ones to create man
In order to spite the gods .

But such memories ,
If ever there were any,
Have long since passed
From the revelries of thought.

None have seen these sorcerers
Or that sable city of Yir
Since the ice had receeded
In more recent ages.

In fact, not even the location
Of that monsterous place
Can be agreed upon anymore,
Which many count as a blessing.

For though the city is lost,
And unseen by the eye,
The meer mention of it
Disturbs and unsettles the mind.

As if it's raven spell,
Was never truely lifted.

Weathered,  worn and shaken.
I saw and felt. I wish never again these pangs.

You saw and responded, you seceded from.
You receeded from pain.
You of gain

This is mine
This is ours
This we meet again

Hours,years. How I go,
availe myself.
Undressed in humility.

We're If I not, who is at fleeting and false of self.
Of Wolf an will

Words of comfort are jagged tooth and claw
Words of truth and mau

Reckless
Resonate
Repeat

I am not retreat

mit herz allein, und verstand verlassen.

of those who once lived by heart alone,
to be told to now live
by mind alone -
              if there be no greater sorrow,
this sorrow comes first.

are we to say that the mind is superior
to the heart?
  that what the heart wrote,
while the mind has only begun writing
is to give us the grand usurp?

how the mind has made the heart
so fickle, so tantamount in
                       seeking non-existing
shores or abides by laws of
   "******" nonetheless healthy mentalities
of unsaid genesis.

we have a spawn of history in our reach,
within a day we can catalogue
a century of years,
  with the crucifix 2000 years,
within a single day
we can be "reminded"
   of the ultimate genesis,
the foundation, the cowering stone
of homage...
          and yet, next tuesday,
we'll be sipping coffee in a cafe
bewildered by our infantile
and if not infantile, when insect-like
worries
         of re-arranging furniture
to suit our *feng shui...
                          if only for the love
of music would our souls dare to breathe
their last composition of a sigh...
by my word,
   i'd leverage the remains of the hyper-psyche
of a woman's worth into the depths
of tartarus...
  so that the titans might grapple with it,
while hades, remaining hidden,
entertains nothing but song...
       and praises no god,
other than the golden ratio of harmonies!
so much distance between
   a da               &      the    sein...
       why not congratulate myself to succumb
to the inverse potency of the original,
and simply state:                jetztsein...
now, i am...
                                   jetzt, ich bin:
a colander through which imagination
is seived, but keeps memory intact...
that forevermore hidden cinema
                     that breathes a gust of
historical subjectivity into
              an ever-objective present,
toward no objectified past,
toward no objective that resounds
                       within the word: future.

oh how we once lived by heart alone,
   to have this char-smog-tar worth of
a heart evenly beating a rhythm
but no rhyme...
               how poetry devolved into
prose, and how prose aspires to poetry...
how we once lived by heart alone,
and mastered all those forthcoming pains...
to now live by mind alone...
    where the only place for a heart
to still be guiding, is to guide us toward
the most irritable path,
  the only path it now would seem
is welcoming our treading feet...
    and to think, we lived, some time ago,
by heart alone;
             i keep finding the need to live
my mind alone
   a harsh dictum -
               the brain inside a pickle jar...
         what heart remains,
has receeded to the confines of sporting
events...
         a collectivism...
                    a football chant...
            what sad events are to come
and prosper from such changes!
                        
to think, we once lived by heart alone,
with whatever agony, with whatever
gnaw of bone & limbs, and lived!

                       where there was once a heart,
there was beauty,
                 but where now there is nought
but mind, what rigidity,
                what little comfort
other than in the ease of menial toils,
what little comfort in a sleepless night...
what of life, if life be purely the domain
of the mind... and the agonising death of
both heart, and soul.

It haunts those streets
In the hidden hours
When neither sun nor moon
Grace the stillborn sky

That city lost long ago
To the steady march of the waves
In the ages since though
Have the great waters receeded

Leaving but strange memoires
Of coral and salt
Sitting upon the shores
Of a dried up sea

There, among thirsting relics
Of a bygone seabed
Does a creature lurk
In exalted solitude

Neither spirit nor man
But somewhere inbetween
shrouded in tattered cloth
And adorned by grievous horns

In and out through the ruins
Of that once alluring locus
Where in long ages past
The spirits and sprites yet lingered

But no longer
Now only the solitary Wydyatt
Haunts those ancient roads
Beneath the twilight skies