Into A Distant Alterscape
This is a celestial sphere,
where all reveries are projected
to be present in the present
In(to) a distant alterscape,
they breath,
they live,
they grow.
They are shielded,
not to befouled,
not to bedimmed,
to let castles be built in the azure sky.
Swollen Black Heart Graffities
… are muted
… swallowed
hidden and forbidden
in the land of love.
Incarcerated.
On the wall of unseen,
…spat out and graffitied.
Shattered Lullaby
Into the sleep to every new dawn,
old lady groaned solid tune of darkness,
a gate to a tale of distant horrid paradise,
a pale illusion of home land afar ,
of agony and of pain.
Floaded by somber night air, she blanketed the future.
Snuggled in, midnight son was in the ether of love.
To the berceuse, he breathed the embraced sorrow,
for in the song he would be the knight,
for he longed to fight with arrows of light.
Only when the spaces meet at the border of the quest,
the sky opens up for the mighty of all witching hours.
The nightie doesn’t anymore offer the warm of mother’s heart.
The echo of the cradle song is whispering in the air, for none.
This is the kingdom of dark spell.
In the land of childhood fairytale,
he crawls under thick veil of cloud,
down and torn,
saving a life; his own to be alive.
It was an anthem of goodnight sleep,
it was where the hope and faith were laid,
until forever stops, it was said.
It is a broken fairy tale that scatters and fades away.
It is a shattered lullaby, where the end is another end.
Scavengers are occupying the dry cracked terrain,
“May the scarecrows become the saviour…”, he prays and leaves for other miracle rain.
That Son of Angels’ Sorrow (Abandoned Offering)
Never was it for sale.
Never was it for trade.
Guarded by the oath of the army of love, against all self-loving.
On the dirt, dripping and dying; a bleeding heart.
Little Wingless Bird Dance At The Sea
In loss,
on the drifting stage of rough wooden plank,
through the doubtful vision of endless vast surface,
to the atonal symphony of wind and water,
with the abrupt rhythm of ocean tide.
: punching, floating, pressing, flicking, gliding, slashing, dabbing and wringing.
so the feet sway gutsy brushes.
so the moves are choreographed
for the fear and for the hope.