Taurus

In the beginning, there were many worlds.
Thin worlds. Black worlds.
They converged.

Then there was one bigger world.
One black world.
Thicker, too.
Also, long.
It went on and on.
Twisting, turning.
Until the hole.

Was it a gutter, or pleasure’s shore?
Who knows?
I don’t.

What’s known is this:
It stood on twisted legs.
Fat legs. Black legs.

But this was not a black world.
Not anymore.
No, it was pink.
I think.
Or mauve.

After that, it went to shit.
A labyrinth inside swollen mammaries.
Excreting reverse tears, back into eyes.

Into a lake of many eyes.
Not of this world.
Looking out of this world.
Green eyes, inside blue waters, inside green mountains, inside blue skies…

But, back to the world.
While it transformed.
It got ears, eyes, and horns.
A face.
A black face.
With blue eyes.

And in that face, another face.
A blue face. With black eyes.

And all the eyes were looking at me.
Eyes from faces, eyes from lakes.
Asking me to create worlds.
Many worlds.

So, in the end, there were many worlds.

Of Wood and Steel

We are defeated in our fire,

Our energies depleted,

Running out of transformations,

The mandrake screams.

Our branches pray to the Moon,

Our roots strain to reach the room

where Salamander’s throne stands.

Wild dogs howl at our amends.

Violence strives to tear apart,

-or has it torn our wings already?

Sometimes the air carries the cut

Of osteal blades, ethereal, deadly.

My love, my queen, my partner still,

We carry weapons of our own,

Severing tissue, crashing bone,

But never going for the kill.

Because the goblet of your moans,

Will never fail to wet my quil.

The cocoon bursts,

Running out of violence,

Our agility depleted,

We are defeated in our air.

Midnight Garden

Dreams were rising from the earth beneath,
Softly sown from the seeds I breathe.
Moonlit whispers filled the midnight air,
Spectral visions dancing with exquisite flair.

Ghosts of memories lightly tread,
Over the ground where my fears were fed.
Through the mist, their figures were clear,
Each shadow, laughter, each light, a tear.

The soil rich with what might have been,
Sprouted sensations, both serenity and sin.
A garden of might, of could, of when,
Woven deeply in the den of my pen.

Among these dreams, so wild, so free,
Crept the tendrils of a darker tree.
Its roots entangled with my heart’s faint screams,
Blending reality with the dark side of dreams.

As the stars faded in the coming light,
The horizon blurring the edges of night,
My soul, a portrait painted in despair,
Found solace in the morning’s golden glare.

But the sun set once more, and shades grew tall—
My dreamscape turned into a haunting hall.
And there, in the quiet, thinking someone might care,
I resumed the long talks with my nightmare.

Heading 2 Oblivion (H2O)

Today I drank the water that kills you instantly,
Swallowed whole by the lies that shimmer,
Deceptive in its clarity, a crystal tint of despair,
The poison ran through veins where hope did swim,
Mingling with my blood, a lethal draft of grim.

In the core where warmth once flickered bright,
Cold currents forged their paths without remorse,
Each drop a specter, haunting life’s frail vessel,
Sinking deep into the marrow of my dreams,
Where not even screams could pierce the silence deep.

Here I stand, the deadly dose consumed,
Amongst the ruins of what was once revered,
Learning the art of breathing underwater,
Where survival is a strange, wordless truth,
And strength is born from the depleted fountains of my youth.

I remember you, singing by the window

I remember you, singing by the window,
the spring sun filtering through your hair,
Casting golden halos,
a goddess unaware.
Melodies rose like daffodils, swaying, soft and light,
Echoing through the silent halls of morning’s tender might.

You wove notes into the breezes, stitching song to day,
Each verse, a petal falling, in the early hours of May.
Your voice, a magpie’s wingspan, wide and full of grace,
Dancing across the currents, in the indecisive space.

Outside, the world was stirring, buds whispered to bloom,
Inside, I felt the winter’s grip, finally, melting in the room.
How could such simple singing unsettle my old, gray skies?
Your tunes were keys to seasons, unlocking sun’s delicate rise.

Now in my heart, lingers every note you ever spun,
A lasting spring, undimmed by time, forever, brightly run.

Touch

He exists in the paradox of touch,
A hunger deep and vast,
For every contact, a substantial shift,
Stars realigning in the aftermath of his might.

He is the child of the sun, burnt by its caress,
Every touch imprints on him, a bittersweet distress.
He weeps not for the pain, but for the beauty lost in the blaze,
A reminder of his curse, in the sun’s vindictive gaze.

Defined by touch, he remembers each one,
A catalogue of sensations, never undone.
He loathes it, this craving that consumes his core,
A tempest of longing for something more.

He is a galaxy spiraling apart,
Fragments of self, seeking a start.
Touch is the gravity that binds him whole,
A collision of stars, a merging of all.

The mere tracing of a collarbone,
Can dissolve his ego.
In this act, he finds release,
A moment of peace, in the destruction, a cease.

Be it the river, the kiss of snow,
Or the grasp of rain—all touches he will know.
For any contact he yearns,
In any touch, a universe turns.

So he wanders, a contradiction of need and fear,
A being of contact, drawing ever near.
To the core of all his strife,
For touch is the pain, the love, the life.

Twilight Ink

Her lips, a twilight’s ink, brushstrokes on a canvas kissed by the night.

Whispers are woven into this smooth romance,
where silence becomes a visual trance.

Eyes, celestial orbs reflecting dreams,
A surrealistic journey through moonlit streams.

Midnight’s sonnet, cosmic ballet, defying the linear, the mundane fray.

Silhouette, an abstraction against space,
Shadows converse, tangled in the embrace.
A chiaroscuro of secrets, and an enciphered script,
where the commonplace loses its grip.

Moonlight, a spectral ink bleeding on alabaster skin.

Phantom verses etched on the tableau of the night,
A surreptitious language, a clandestine delight.

Experimental echoes,
a symphony beneath the breath,
In her embrace, I found eternal life,
escaping the clasp of death.

She used to be War

In the soft cadence
of her spoken verses,
I lost myself in the fragrance
of lyrical roses,
blinded by the radiance
of her prose.

Yet, unbeknownst to my gaze,
she carried the weight
of unspoken battles,
the echo of distant cannons
hidden in the chambers
of her spirited heart.

Her revolutions were not
in the twirl of galaxies,
but in the fierce storms
that brewed within her,
in the fire that raged
beneath the beauty.

I, enamored by the stars
in her eyes,
failed to see the wars
etched on her skin,
the scars of a warrior
disguised as a goddess.

In her, the universe collided—
a collision of contradictions,
a paradox of petals
and sword-blade thorns,
a terpsichore of beauty
and the silent revolutions
that birthed it.

Mad

In the labyrinth of reason,
The heart longs for madness.
Chaos, a dance with the absurd,
Where every poet’s vision stirred.

Echoes fall on deafened ears,
Music crystallizes fears.
The sane may see a garden, where flowers bloom and fade,
But the mad, they invoke forests, where feral fantasies parade.

Oh, to be the minstrel of lunacy’s embrace,
Leaving not a logic’s trace.
Colors refuse to conform,
The words of poets are reborn.

So, let the laughter echo,
An anthem of untamed sprite.
For in the realm of madness,
Chaos finds its tune,
Words transcend their silence,
Becoming songs too soon.