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.

The Monster and I

There’s an open grave in my backyard,

From which monsters and zombies emerge,

Strolling past every wall I build and every guard,

To sleep in my home’s corners, in every dream, every urge,

Be it innocent, sweet, sour or wild,

I have no reasons to open my eyes when they

Come howling, I know their voices like a child

Knows his mother’s lullaby at the end of the day,

No more do I open my eyes to anything

Even when I know the room is flooding with light

Warm and divine, I know exactly what the birds will sing

About hope bringing traces of morning into my night,

But I know the colors will just burn my eyes

Shut again, so I listen for your steps solid

Walking into the room with unmistakable confidence fluid,

I will not make a sound; I will not make a move,

I’ll wait for you to carry me to the floor

And tighten every last chain after you remove

Every mechanism that ever kept you from my core,

I feel your breath spreading over my skin as cold

As death piercing its way to my hollowed heart,

As you stroke my hair with your fingers of gold,

And sing me a dirge that hurts from the very start,

‘’Hush, child of unheard passion and untold sin,

Hush your wretched soul and open your eyes never,

Hurt not from the metal’s pressure against your skin,

It’s dead nature will kill your soul’s quiver’’

Don’t I know you? I’ve listened to you before,

All your songs, your screams, the faith of your soul,

You’re my favorite monster that would spare no door

Unbroken just to watch me fall.

Have we never been safer here,

In my night that never ends?

Have we never burned a tear

In honor of being such loyal friends?

Have you not rejoiced in the twist

Of my waist and untrimmed mind,

And we tried for a million times to resist

The room where lightning bolts entwined?

Have I not drank poison from your palms

And begged you for some more

To bring the high waves when the calm

Is killing me slowly with its lazy roar?

Yes, it was always you, I recognize you,

The metal, the chill, your steady voice, the thrill

That fills in the corners of my blurring view

And saves me from the still night’s kill,

Now, though I can not see you with my eyes closed,

I know you’re sitting in the corner waiting

As my body in its chains so vulnerable and exposed

Twists relentlessly in the waves of pain I’m creating,

I can feel you deeply inhaling,

And taking in the smell of my burning,

Beating heart moaning in its cage and slowly failing,

As you sip on the pleasure of my yearning,

Isn’t this the dance we’re dancing now?

You walk in uninvited but surely knowing

That the moment you enter I will kneel down and bow,

Despair taking the wheel even though pride’s showing,

Shyly it peaks behind the clouds, a bird

That in a few short moments will fly away

Never again to be seen or heard

Of until the breaking of a new meeker day,

So here I am, eyes closed, limbs spread, skin bared,

And chains locked with their keys nowhere to be found,

Waiting for the mutilating exorcism, word by sharpened word,

That will finally drive away the obsession with your sound,

And if it should fail and you should keep

Lurking in corners where I can not reach

And haunting every dream waking and asleep,

Then I should accept my fate and then beseech

To the rotten effigy in the temples of lust

Where black-eyed nuns drinking from the lakes of oblivion,

Will pour tears in my eyes to unlock it, then thrust

A dagger through my heart to end your dominion,

I would shake vigorously in my shackles and make a sound,

Aimed to drown yours but you’ll never disappear,

For the grave that you came from in the ground

Is still open wide to grant the world my every fear,

And maybe be in time when you finally taste my blood sweet

On your curved lips, sliding down your throat,

You’ll walk around carrying my rigid body on the street,

And screaming at the top of your lungs the poems I wrote,

You’ll tell the world the story of you and I,

How we were always wrong and always right,

How our worlds collided but we never asked why

Our spark of light never took flight,

You’ll preach to the air how I was your friend

And how your finger prints are all over my soul

And like grey afternoon in a summer, up until the end

How our eyes mocked our existence with walls of coal.

Rhyming Rambling

There’s nothing my pen can do

For me tonight, there’s nothing to say,

That will be even remotely new,

Or that will help me to another day,

There’s nothing the world can

Give me when I don’t know

What I want or how to plan

The plot that will see me through.

The words are weak and without

Significant reason, the purpose is sound

Asleep beside a faith in doubt

Drenched, then buried in a muddy ground.

And nothing can help me

When there’s nothing to be helped,

Like nothing can ever stop the sea

From striking the seagulls as they yelped

With violent whips of water just because

They searched the surface for stray

Fish that chose to swim a little close

To the sun freely through the day

And then shake their fins away to the dark

When the sun’s rays gradually withdraw

And there’s no more silver spark

In themselves to pursue against the flow.

But does the fish know what it

Really is until it’s pierced by a bird’s claw?

Do they find how they’re perfectly fit,

For something entirely different from why they grow?

Why do we, like them, give our lives

To something we can never be sure of?

Why do we give strongly to our strives

When we can never know what we’ll be carrying off?

Just so the sea can strike at the seagull

As the gulls hunt their little silver fish

And then the fish, gulls and sea all in gowns dull,

Stained by life’s strive utter an empty death wish.

Who’s to say I can not give my life to,

Nothing and everything and flow like the rays

That spread generously all day through

And at night, in a memory of a flower stay,

Until in the next morning when they come

And witness the origins and decays of lands

They grow new flowers, and build a new home

In creatures too magical to understand.

Wondering, where does the phoenix sleep tonight?

Does she know me? Does she see me?

Is she weeping at my sight?

Am I where she wants me to be?

My oldest friend, my only friend,

The one that I’ve never seen,

Yet can feel you in every blow of wind,

Washing all the snow off my heart, clean

Like the soul of a child, a leave

Washed by the morning’s dew,

But now that it’s cold, my heart’s on my sleeve,

And I can’t even feel you.

So my heart is burning its empty walls

As you decide to sleep tonight

Whilst you know without you my pen falls

And the paper sleeps meaningless and white,

I’ve been giving myself to something,

Like the fish, only I called it honesty,

But it tumbled when faith came tumbling

Down and it started wars and animosity,

I ended it, but it did not come back after the war

And even when the faith grew back

And it healed itself, it healed me too but the scar

Of honesty is malignant and raging with black.

Then I gave my life to love, and only love,

But love is only despair when it’s trapped in fear,

And suppression and bitterness that drove

Me almost off the edge of insanity to my pier.

Then I only gave it to me but then

I realized that I needed love for that too,

And all the madness, hope, obsessions, sin,

Did not last and so old they quickly grew.

And I’m still waiting for the next

Obsession, passion, emotional suicide or

Purpose and peace to give me some context

Of which key to find and for which door.

Or even if I should just break them all

And scream and bleed my way down each door,

It will surely be easier to let myself free fall

Maybe I’ll know what I’m here for.

Pretty Mary is a Princess Sweet

Pretty Mary is a princess sweet

In her fluffy dress and her little feet,

Bouncing around in dances and twirls,

Flying around, her blonde perfect curls.

Pretty Mary is a princess sweet,

That loved to get all the candy she could eat

Her mommy made her all sorts of that,

But said ‘’Careful baby or you’ll get fat.’’

Pretty Mary is a princess as sweet

As honey in a glass jar kept safe and neat

With her little sisters playing a new role-play

In a pink castle for which daddy did pay.

Pretty Mary is a princess sweet

That’s why daddy built her this retreat

And she looked out the window to the front yard

Expecting a prince to appear when life gets hard.

And because pretty Mary is a princess sweet,

She kept her eyes focused on the street

All she did for days was to wait in her glittery pink

Keeping her songs and the birds’ in perfect sync.

Pretty Mary such a princess sweet

Who sheltered behind plastic walls from the heat,

But weary in time they turned to an ugly brown,

And like London Bridge they’re falling down.

Pretty Mary Rushed to her daddy’s seat

Where he always sat with books elite

Next to all the shelves and the old fireplace

She found the fire had eaten her daddy’s face.

Pretty Mary ran out on the concrete

On cold and wet paths with her bare little feet

Help, is there a prince out there

That could save a damsel young and fair.

Pretty Mary with her hands petite

Clinched to the coats of strangers on the street

Even though they pushed her, she bounced back

And men’s muddy coats turned her hands black.

Pretty Mary the princess sweet,

Did not understand how to take defeat,

For being kept in an blunt Ivory tower,

Can drain away all a girl’s power.

Pretty Princess Mary slept on the street

And sang her song for a million souls to repeat

From pink to black her dress had changed

From self to soul her heart was chained.

Pretty Mary no more answers to sweet

Or princess, those terms are obsolete,

Pretty Mary fell, neck down, on a stick,

Just to realize she’s not made of plastic.

Unlaced

Warm arms in the cold of winter

Snuck from the heart of darkness to surround me,

The pen dies in the moment you enter

To make way for all the poems to be,

They say all warmness comes surely with a smile,

Well, it’s not untrue, but it has been a while

Since the devil had felt warm and smiled not kindly,

But cunningly as the fire wraps me gently,

And then your heart was pounding against mine

As you said ‘’let me take you beyond that line

Of sanity and care

and consequences unfair’’

Love, your logic is flawed but not your heart,

No, your heart is well set to play its part

In the theatre of my willful submission,

This is not the time for curtseys and permissions,

Unlace me, cut every cord and every wire

That has kept me away from your desire,

Tonight I am not a poet, there will be no rhyme,

No schemes or sighs, there’ll be no death and no time

Tonight I’m just a girl looking upon the cold dawn

Of womanhood from the warmth of a man drawn,

Say no more prayers, plea on your knees no more,

The air can hear you, and I want to be the only one

To hear your passion, love, riding high with the sun,

After all, isn’t that what we’re here for?

The Carnival

The sun stared at her but she did not stare back, not for lack of trying, she loved the sun but it was just too bright. The light did hurt her eyes, so she bowed her head and looked down at the uneasy ground deciding to hate it forever. The heads of people were coming and going under her feet, of every color and kind, the blond, the red and the brown, the short and tall, the small and the ones she was sure were full of themselves. She did not focus much on the faces, nothing interested her anymore. She knew them without even having to look at them, the man laughing with his family with eyes full of worry if he’ll be able to pay for the next ride and dinner as well, the teenage girl with blushing cheeks and the boy who’s trying to impress her with a stuffed animal and a fake flower and the children who were constantly staring at the ripples of her rainbow colored dress. They were the worst, because they would stare and only see the colors and the white painted face but not her, never her. Sometimes she hears little girls shouting out to their daddies that they want to paint their face white like the lady up on the wooden wheel and dress in all the colors of the world like her. In the carnival, she thought, everyone wants to dress up in as much color as possible, trying to experience life in everything however small, so they go on expensive rides that will make them scream and take pictures with bizarre faces and figures they know are nothing but fakes, only humans dressed up in custom, but they don’t like to think about that in the moment they take the picture, no one wants to take a picture with the community college drop-out in a clown suit. Of course not, that person only exists to himself, for in the carnival your custom is who you are.

And she was in a sea of the colorful ripples at the tail of her dress, with stripped stockings slender all the way up to her thighs and ribbons of red and gold hanging from her waist, her breast and her hair. Her place was higher than those who walked by, yet no one looked at her like she is some sort of queen or the owner of anything, not even the wooden wheel she was tied to at four limbs. For all they knew she was a slave for that piece of wood, with nowhere to shield her from the cloud’s breeze or from the sunlight, with nothing to do but to wait for the next gentleman to stop by and play her game. That was her corner, her role in the endless horizon of laughter, chattering and mindless screams, and she did not run it nor did she want to be a part of it, but tied at four limbs by his chains, there was nothing she can do but avoid the sun’s glare.

The owner of her corner was the devil in the suit of a man, who believed she had no will to fight anymore. He should know, he was the one who exhausted her to this state, not without her help of course, and he made her into the pretty obedient doll she is now. When he first saw her, he could see it in his mind, her voluptuous body up on that wheel spinning her wits away, waiting for the gents’ knives to fly towards her. He longed for the anticipation in her eyes to where the knife will hit her every time a man raises his arm to aim. As he collects the gold and stands shouting for more. He would shout for more to see her suffer, he thought, he would do what it takes to get her up on his wheel.

She was just another girl passing by, and she was alone, dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, anyone but this man could have easily missed her. But those girls, invisible to their surroundings, were his cup of tea. They lived in their private worlds when no one else accepted them in theirs and he enjoyed tearing through the meaningless smiles and polite nods to the creatures inside, beyond the young sparkle of their eyes. And he had many ways, being in the suit of a man. Because all those invisible girls had one thing in common, they were dreamers. And dreamers, as greedy as they are, would have all life at their command if they could. And what is more appealing than the promises, the touches and assurance of acceptance from a great man. He did all what he can to bring out the beast inside them and show it to them, flash it in front of their weary faces and shatter all what they knew about themselves, all what they were made to believe they are, just comes tumbling down.

Then, it’s time for a last choice, either they live with their new versions of themselves and what knowledge they have learned about the hideousness of their souls, or they accept his offer of redemption from the guilt and sin with just a simple game they have to play with him. They would let him paint their faces in white and their lips in bright red, then he will dress them in such a colorful dress that replaces how boring their white t-shirts are. And then they should just climb upon a wooden wheel voluntarily as he ties their limbs with chains that are instantly tight enough that they hurt. And then he would spin the wheel and they would get in a drunken state from that spinning, so when the men would come to aim their knives trying to hit their eyes, hearts and their beautifully sprung legs, they would not feel a thing at all. It will only feel lighter in their bodies and their souls with every drop of blood that oozes out, as each one takes away little parts of their sins.

Then he would scream at the top of his lungs ‘’Behold, gentlemen’’ to the people coming and going to seek life in the colors of the carnival. ‘’The best way to unleash your inner hunter, to aim at a pretty woman’s heart. Five points if you aim it at the glide of her waist, ten if you pierce her high riding breasts and fifty points if you take out one of her emerald green eyes.’’

And men would come in in groups, laughing and giving their gold to the devil willingly. Competing to see who is the best hunter, to see who is manly enough not to care for a woman’s flowing blood, her wounds, and her pain. They’d pick a knife from the devil’s box and he’d give the wheel a good hard spin.

And she, well, she tries to take it in and into her head, try to lose her thoughts into a time where she knew who she was so she’d speed up the drunken effects of spinning. But she still remembers the first knife that accelerated towards her, and she remembers all the effects of spinning being erased by this moment of anticipation to where it will hit her, she tried to shield her eyes and say a secret prayer to a deity she no longer connected with and then when she felt more alive than ever, she knew that the devil had lied. And when the first knife hit her arms, she knew for sure. As the pain she felt, however intense it is, did not make her feel any lighter, it made her feel more powerless than ever. And her blood that flowed all over the wheel did not take anything from her sin, in fact, she realized she had voluntarily given her soul to the devil and bowed and that in itself, she knew, was a sin.

So she felt more guilt and repented, but her limbs were still tied leaving her feeling more helpless and so it went on. A vicious spiral that deepened with every knife that came from a sadist’s hand seduced by the same devil that seduced her. She was stuck in his game just as much as every other man that aimed at her and walked away laughing at the sight of her blood-stained dress with a sense of accomplishment in his eyes that he himself did not understand. But the devil did and he enjoyed it. He enjoyed all the colors covering the darkness and all the laughter mixed with evident pain they all deny, it was his playground and he was their king because they let him.

That day the sun stared at her and she couldn’t stare back was no different than the others. The experiences she had were not new, and she did not anticipate anything. She had reached the final stages of her enslavement and no more was she willing to even raise her eyes to fight his smile when he counts the gold he collects off her pain. She was ready to die in her chains that she was even eager for the one man that will come and aim correctly, a man colder than the devil himself that will come and aim for her heart pitilessly, forever ending the devil’s game.

What she did not know is that, in that very same hour that she decided to hate the sun for shining, the devil was taking a man’s gold. Little did the devil know that the man was a hunter and he, with a snide smile, was looking for a heart to snipe.  The man took the most rusty of all the knives in the devil’s box and polished it in a handkerchief that he held in his pocket. All the rust disappeared and the knife shone with silver and glistening white in the sunlight. He looked at the girl’s dress weaving around her in a most chaotic manner and he looked at her eyes darkened and dim against her pale painted face, and her legs and arms tied to the wheel almost tearing her into two. And he with all dexterity raised the knife and aimed at her heart. He shall be the last man to ever hunt her young heart and he, unlike all the others, saw what was beyond her custom. The blood streamed from her chest and it started dripping on the floor. And the devil smiled at the sight of it and looked to the man with sparkling eyes, for his game was over.

‘’Congratulations, good sir’’ the devil said ‘’you won. Do you care to collect your prize?’’

‘’And what would that be?’’ the man inquired.

‘’Her very heart in its chains, sir.’’

‘’The heart and the chains are worthless now that she is gone, mute figures. You tied her up there, they are yours. I am merely the man that gives the devil the chance to start his game anew’’ in a cold steady voice the man said.

‘’Oh, that’s where sir is mistaken’’ the devil said ‘’I never tie anyone who wishes not to be tied. She could have gotten away anytime for her chains were merely strings and she chose her role.’’

The man said no other words but took the heart and walked away, he knew the devil and he knew the girl. He knew she could have gotten away if she had known how to say the right prayers, if she had known to take the roads less colorful, then she wouldn’t have had so much to pay for even if she would have ended up as cold as him, but she could have avoided her dreadful fate. He toured the carnival for one more time and behind him he heard the devil at his wheel shouting out ‘’Behold, gentlemen’’

Mythical Girl

For all those who are asking if the myth is real,

It's as real as breath, so listen, so feel,

I am the girl that stole a horse,

Into a night paved with remorse,

I rode it like no other can,

I mounted it when no one was looking and ran

Away from the arms of a home

To the heart of a home,

Away to the heart of hearts,

I am the girl that ends where she starts,

And never starts at the same end twice,

The one that steals at no price,

And seeks refuge in her stolen treasure,

Until the time comes for the pressure

To rise, she drowns in covers of ''what if''s,

I am she, the one who for leisure dived off cliffs,

And came back ever more alive, ever more dead,

Came back with horns and rings all on her head,

And thorns in her eyes,

And a mouthful of poetry and cries,

To ride again into lands new and old,

Old because she's seen them all unfold

Beneath her feet, new for she's never lived enough

To endure the most precious of the stuff,

So she tasted, she smelled, she touched and kissed,

She saw her dreams and she aimed, but she missed,

And she drank from rivers hidden,

She relished in fruits forbidden,

She trode carefully but stepped on souls and,

She turned meanings into sand,

With just a touch from her hands, weak,

Small, Barely enough for her to seek,

What life had for her on the top shelf,

Eager, but barely enough to help herself,

Yet, this girl is so mythical because,

If you were to see her, you'd never know who she was,

You'd never know the things she said,

The sins she committed that rendered her dead,

The lands she visited, the hearts she knew,

The souls she loved and how her love is true,

How many eagles lifted her and her free fall down,

Then the holes she dug searching for a wooden crown,

You'd never see the real price,

This girl has paid for being nice,

And being nice is all what you'll see of her,

You'll think it's all what's truly there,

And you'll keep wondering if she's real,

Will you ever feel what she's capable to feel,

Or has she known the borders of the devil

To willingly dance with him at every revel,

Tapping over water together with every last breath,

Or is it true the end of her myth,

That this girl trode away on her stud,

From the borders of the devil to find God,

And once she rode on this path alone,

Little about her was actually known,

But rumor has it, behind her she left a friend,

Who knew truthes about her to no end,

They say he was a part of her,

And he knew her when no one would dare,

He'll be the one to tell you the relentless truth,

About how much anility was in her youth,

What he's found out in the dungeons of her home,

About monsters and creatures she's all become,

But ask him if she's good at heart,

Ask him why is it that always alone she departs,

Why she left home in the first place,

What are the meanings of the markings on her face,

How was her smile, her cry, her shoulder

How did he watch her get older,

Ask him if he ever saw the wooden crown

If she wore it dusty and muddy brown,

About her eyes speaking instead of her tied tongue

And about the fading silver in her lung,

Say, do you hear of her?

Did you and she breathe the same air?

And when he says yes, and he will,

You'll have the answers solid and still,

Then ask him, after he tasted of her tears and blood,

If he knew if she's ever found God.