Torment

At times like this we pray,

But we have no tongues,

What to do when all our ways

Are stacked in airless lungs?

At times like this we believe,

But we have no souls,

What can a man with little heart grieve

Without letting all his masks fall?

The hand of the poet sleeps,

In the faithless moments to dream,

Reality into the darkness seeps,

And it becomes one with his scream,

Not said but understood,

Not understood but surely known,

How can his eye willingly embrace the blood

When beauty took off its garments and shone?

Blood is the storyteller beneath the skin,

Blood is the silent pathways trapped,

Carrying trails of virtue and sin,

How when spilled can they by a poet be grabbed?

Early enough, to burn bright down the street,

Late enough, to destroy all what they touch,

They run and curve and under his feet

They stop, Ah! Why begin a flow as such?

The poet wanders, the city falls dead,

And he, alone, a prayer so silent,

At the last place a word rests her head,

His temptress muse, gone into a vacuum violent,

A response with the last trace of air,

In exchange to holding on to a world

His world, even more real than their

Cage with their own greed a sword,

There he stands grieving his own childhood,

And their he grieves their most dreadful sin,

and he shuts his eyes as tight as he could

So tell me, poet, lover, friend, father, twin,

In your world, does the devil still win?

Requiem

The Dust

All Hail the Almighty, in whom we trust,

Even in your mortifying silence, and in ours eternal,

Even when our elders are dead long since in their lives,

At the feet of all the wrong paths, the worst strives,

And they’re reaching to us with hands infernal.

To embrace our ambition, wrap our soul in a stench,

That spoiled their best days and to drench

All our dreams in their rotten reality,

We’ve long forgotten the tales about pixy dust,

Though young, in the dust of graves we trust,

And we’ve stopped seeking traces of your humanity,

The scars are darkened showing your profanity.

                                         

The Blood

Scarlet ribbons stained with mud,

My wounded lakes formed a flood inside,

The color of a mad portrait of St. Valentine

Seeing virtue in slaughtering love and drinking its wine,

And like you he got drunk on it, in his false pride.

The blood gushing from my wound into heaven,

Smelled even better than this obsession forgiven

By true love itself, never seen outside my soul,

And my feet splattered more blood across the floor,

As I run and slam my body from door to door,

Desperately trying to scream out one last call.

The Grave

I’ve heard them saying that I’ve been brave,

Just because in the universe I obtained a voice,

For I was born in chains, to people in chains,

I’ve looked down and saw aligned slaves on lanes

Stretching to doom, so there was no other choice.

When I heard the angel in the sky that sings

An ancient song, that a lifetime ago I had wings,

And if I found them anew they'd take me to heaven,

So I followed the harmony of the blissful sound,

He just never said that the doorway in the ground,

Is the only path to fly above skies seven.

The Light

Always uncovered in the darkest blight,

Our faith when our eyes fail to see

The dark night in its very core,

Slowly and gently beating for us to explore,

Where it hides when it goes deep into the sea

Then it emerges from the mountain, what rays carry,

And if I let it guide my path will my eyes grow weary,

Light, O, oldest friend of the dark,

The blood of angels in our mortal veins,

I’ve found you lurking in a thousand broken chains,

And when death strikes, it sets your spark.