Trek

In the night of nights
Under the brightest moon of the darkness
Under the metallic bridge of cars
On the dreamlike streets of yellow
I march.

It is not a lone march
And will never be
The bridge never ends
The moon never sets
And the crowds never disperse

All steps are uniform
No discrepancies are seen
All driven by the mechanical hand
The ticking of the watch
The dripping of the hourglass

The moon is a sickle
That never harvests
The bridge is a knife
That never cuts
The yellow drums pulse, seemingly forever

I have come twenty miles
I will go eighty more, or less
I have walked through some blindfolded
I have tripped over stones
I have complained, I have cried.

But the march must go on.

Woe be to him
Who looks not to the front
But to the bright sickle in the east
To the metallic knife of the gods
To the dull and dark pavement that abrades his foot
Layer by layer.

Concordia Discors

2200. In this midsummer's night, I was half-asleep, half-alive, straddling on the boundary of consciousness. A deathly feeling overcame me, as if the portal to the afterlife, that of headaches and fantasy, had opened. My eyelids felt heavy as ever, lacking any liveliness in that which could be described as life. It is the most morose of them all, this feeling of waking up to darkness, as if one cruel dream is not enough. I lie on my tombstone.

But in the distance I saw light. At the end of the tunnel...

It was piercing, unpleasant, intruding. It yells its brilliance at me, incessantly emitting its blinding brightness. It was yellow, yellow of the gold and fame of the future. You will be a millionaire; you will be forever in power; you shall prove to them you are the tallest of them all! The glow of wealth, the dream of the businessman, the tricks of the actuary, the uncivil engineer... I shall build the empire, with ambition and not procrastination. Not procrastination.

I knew not of the yellow tint, but not much later did I realize the white glow shining through the yellow light. White with passion, with conscience, with compassion, with charity. Be eloquent, be wise, and persuade. Glow in the others' eyes. The yellow light seemed to be supportive of this white aura. In fact, it is the basis of this glow. Why have you not seized me. Why have you procrastinated.

And, shameless at the boundary, was the faint red halo, like a circle of blood for the ritual of witches, the most evil of them all, the most tempting of them all. Come and embrace me, said the crimson ring, and possess me. Come here, and take me in your hands. I am warm. I am yours. Commit your infidel sin! Why are you hesitating!

I felt my soul being dragged out of my very head, onto the floor, slowly creeping for the eerie concoction of light, like a beast preparing for its victim, like a snake crawling to its food. My body was limp, helpless, as I watched my soul get abducted by the node of taint, of the chemistry between evil and ambition, of love, of killing...

0628, the clock strikes, at the strangest time of all. I found myself without a blanket, overslept, with severe headache. The light at my bathroom never got turned off. I sat up, and proceeded to wash my face.

At the bathroom.

I have seen

I have seen the cosmos go
In elliptical orbits
Every principle is in control
So aesthetic, so pleasing.

I have seen the rivers flow
Undisturbed and unreserved
Words pour out, ideas are sent
So eloquent, so moving.

I have seen the east winds blow
Bringing life to the land
Deeds of kindness, seeds of love
So impressive, so touching.

I have seen the tempests brew
In roaring speeds it tears through
One second here, and the other not
So powerful, so daunting.

I have seen the sunflowers grow
Towards the sunlight they strive
Composed melodies, of love and life and joy
So elegant, so praiseworthy.

Then, I watch the tree of life
Bearing fruit, yet turning black
While I walk along the dwindled streets
Into the etherized evening, I go.

The Archer

A man
who speaks the language of mathematics
Stands brave in front of the tide
Of humans, of nature, and of life.

And the tempest of ignorance shall rise
And the tremors of the ground shall rage
And the darkness of unfettered wrath shall spread
In a false face of aristocracy

But stand true you shall
Stand true in the face of the revolver
Though reason is not on your side
Nor has it ever repaid your efforts.

Draw out the bow you shall
Release the unrestrained arrow of light
Trust your instincts, trust your conscience
For the shadow of lies you shall dispel.

Play on, play on, and play on, the monologue!
in the visage of the so-called man
Laugh in the presence of the reaper
Smite in the tangle of the poison ivy.

In the age of flowing
Rivers flow red, leaves grow black
Amongst the lurid tarn of humanity
Where, where is the bullet of truth.

March

To march, to proceed, to kill. What are we marching towards? Why, to the miserable fog that we call "spring". This thick covers all life, overgrown, decaying or stalling, from the bloody swords and scepters that we call M and S in our language. The strangling ivy wraps around the great tree, the tree that burns. The grey cubicle, that I once called home, has turned into a battlefield, of lush flytraps, of undead nightshades, glaringly displaying itself amidst countless mindless corpses.

What irony that fills one's face with unyielding smoke of confusion. March is the month of death, or morose. Grey skies weep upon the graves of the sacrifice to the greed of mankind, to the collapsing walls of the cubicle, to the history that is heavier than ever. Endless rain pour from the white mesh of pure melancholy, attempting to dilute the bloodshed, yet in vain, for the bloodshed has lasted for hundreds of eons, longer than the memory that anyone alive possesses. This river of heme has flown for eternity, that while we see it, hear about it every day, we simply walk past it, contributing to the flow of this acrid rust.

Every March is when the metallic gates of the enfer open, when the reaper himself comes to claim the lives of the unfortunate, though this is not necessary at all, for the minds have already been betrayed and lost in the forgotten woods. Simply wave your sickle, and the heads will follow. Save yourself time, and indulge in apathy.

March is the month of apathy, of indulgence, of wastefulness. The East wind blows, away from the vast ocean to the already oppressive shoreline, sticking drops of tear on all walls. The grey walls of the cubicle then seems even more depressing. Injustice rise from the ground, like the fog that emerges from the endless ocean of puddles, blinding all men beneath the sun, or the lack of.

March is a nightmare of thirty-one days, where all joy lays waste to unyielding evils, inundating the earth, the air, and the sky. Yet March goes on every year. Painful, but fateful. Unfortunate, yet determined. Ghastly, though permeating.

The cries of the fog
The sobs of the walls
The wailing of the cubicle

Overcome
I recognize none
But fear.

Fissure

Sometimes I listen
To the watch in front of my computer
Broken, but still running
Running, but still
Broken

Its chimes and ticks are
Inescapable
Seemingly taunting me with time
Or is it the lack of?

Like a dripping hourglass
Or a decaying tree
In a forgotten piece
Of endless night
Of never ending darkness

The stars themselves create
Fissures in my life
The only way
To imagination

Do the stars count
how many seconds
have elapsed
have gone by
have noticeably painfully
ominously
ticked away

Broken is fate
But unknown are the fissures
For it lays within my heart
Yet I have no scalpel of
Courage
To tear open my heart to
Fill in the
Fissures.

The ender stars
Spreading their weak
Ephemeral
Brightness, or dimness
Or the lack of

The nether hourglass
that ticks away
Like waves crashing on sand
Never alive again

Oh the reaper of souls
Never are you caring
Nor are you considerate
Anyhow

I live again
But my armour
My sword
My axe
My
memory
All remained in a fissure
A thousand miles away
A layer of flesh away

The Fall of the House of α (1)

The First Entrance

"But the lute shall sound no more

and collect the shattered pieces

once and forever more."

To venture into the Castle of α is an unimaginable feat indeed. The combination of horror and anticipation should be the correct terms to describe such unimaginably paradoxical sentiment. There is something that allures you so much you have to terminate your very current occupation, or even curtail your unredeemable vacation of the mind just to fantasize about it, yet it dreads you so much that it fails in comparison to any shame or guilt of any kind, whether mental or downright physical and manifest. A phantasmagoric image should float in, or should it not, but rather appear in the most sudden of all fashion, of a house so sickened by the green fog in the vicinity that it chokes on its own atmosphere, yet emits such warmth that it almost would seem to be a welcoming and intriguing residence, despite being the complete antithesis.

And thus he ventures forth to this unimaginable kingdom of sorrow, with her arms open wide o the ever entwined and puzzling pathway ever leading to a chasm in a most cordial manner, or I should say, lukewarm, for none is cordial about this mere duplicitous reflection of the mind. It also does not help him (or you, the reader) that there is a storm brewing at this very moment, ready to pounce on him in the most unpredicted moment, where he least suspects anything to deviate from his plan (though plan would be very unsuitable of a word here simply because of the sheer dread that covers all vestiges of sanity and rationality). In his hand is a saw, a saw that once saved, but now gilded with the essence of sustenance, the very blood of the unknown number of "patients" perished under his fury (and insanity, though he would most despise anyone telling him thus). A very simple goal of this unsuspicious venture is to satisfy sheer curiosity, the driving force of a man to anything other than primal desires, sweeping even through the realms of α. Yet, no rational discussion can be derived from this premise solely because of the unlimited craze that emits forth from this undesirable, most disgusting encounter of him with him on the other side of the tarn of grey matter, and this narrative shall deserve, thus, no logical deductions or breakdown of any shape or form.

An unholy twang sounds from the inner chambers of the House, the void of all emotions. The engineer arrives at the door, the only door to this unfathomable suction of the substance which defines life and distinguishes between cardboard and men. No word is spoken that day, though, as they climb the stairs to the abode of evil. Oppressively humid but pretentiously decorated, yet ruined by the mist that pervades each and every piece of furniture that resides in this hell-on-earth. Alpha, the medic says, alpha is the name of the undeniable criminal that shall be executed today. Perhaps the irony is very obvious here, yet no one in the house, save α, knows of this fact, and is awake to the sanity of such analysis. Meanwhile, the storm is gathering voltage, ready to splice the sky with its blue rays of separation. The most gothic of all encounters, yet grotesquely hyperbolic and wrongly emphasized. As you shall see, the despicable and overly ornate decoration is not a coincidence, but of a reflection, or even a manifestation if you shall insist, though repetition is, though prevalent, never desired. On the second thought of any rationally sane mind, this occasion would conjure up nightmares of all sorts, not excluding the encounter of the most unholy and destructive emotion that can ever be felt. After all, it is the House of α that we are situated in, and it is α that we need to deal with at this very moment.

"Destroy the music, end the song!

The fool would say that

But a discerning ear would know

Never can a piece of music end

Never will a song of sorrows lend."