Secundus Journey

  Last Kiss by Massimo Pedrazzi Eternal Asunder Across dimensions, poems written as writhing in agony, the poet and his veins slicing the very paper reminiscent of a tale  for a life with no love, only stale. Countless verses with words both told and untold, A heart aching, stuck inside its walls of mold. Ages of thrill for the biggest sin in life, for an eternity wasted until a gluttonous afterlife. Sought the peaks only to become a pest of stories reminiscent of bleeding from the chest. For a quill filled with blood torn asunder leading to the sweet breath of your mouth under. There are no stories left, only to observe; thus thy visage shall become undo my preserve. Harnessed the Sun to be none but null, songs of funeral, striking my skull. Aching bodies with a soul no longer hardened and hands disheartened, a creation burdened. 'Tis but my funeral, shall we celebrate for what it is worth, I am au fait. I waited at the bottomless pit for a soul for a soul with hands ready to...

Act 1 | The Dealer  "The rules are quite, quite  simple. Look at the cards you have been dealt, then use those cards to collect more." We are the mere planewalkers of this realm. A realm so eternal, mythical, and kind that every creation is born with its roles already attuned to his very name, gender, skin, and blood. We are but mere creatures that are destined to serve our roles. And thus, we have our own cards.  The man is to build for we are the brutes that protect the weak in our societies. The women, the children, and even the other men, the weak men. This is what is required of us, for it is the norms that have preserved our race. Then, so shall it be. The cards are dealt in the men's favor. We are the protectors, so we have to be strong. What is strong? A brute with a voice that dazzles the very air and makes you shiver. Perhaps, not always. "Look at the man you are", said once you achieve something, because why wouldn't you be the "person you ar...

 Who Am I? An answer, seemingly evolving through my body and soul. I will update it when possible.

Sicily, The Ever Beautiful  A couple of months ago, I rowed my boat to sail the seas, woven red. Oars could hear them, the planks groaned But the souls of our heart's dreads gelled. Long have I sought the Sicily, a Sicily yet no master to beseech, my heart tossed itself to water, growing weary and seas of cold and thunder we crossed. I was a harvester, witnessing Sicily, with her laughter pouring like golden wheat fields, there I stood, unsown, and there she was, a scythe that drew my blood. I was a sailor, witnessing Sicily, And to my sight, I found Trinacria. She stood at the three capes of my longing,  spinning like the legs of Trinacria. In the fields, she stood calmly, elegantly, and the cliffs welcomed me , a delicacy that poisoned me, tarnished me. On the final foot, stood the unspoken , anchoring me to the very isle that I could not speak upon me. Like windmills of a mountain that sought no lake, I brought doom upon a windmill that was already spinning. I was an enemy...

  Me, The Mere Worshipper We, the mere worshippers, for gods and goddesses of our hearts. The wits or the sight shall we claim arbiters? Such sacrilege of affairs' arts. Now lies, perhaps miles, above a statue, calling my name to turn me a devotee. With what lies beneath of all hues, Perhaps her sight, for all this, a key. A statue, perhaps, isolated, Yet it swarms us with belief. A hand, perhaps, desolated, to ensure a journey, hoping not brief. Surrounding us, a shell cracked, To witness thy light, my appreciation. Enveloping your visage, to distract, Serves as evidence for Lord's creation. Would I be my Orpheus to herald the footsteps in my heart's sand? Or perhaps, to carry my path whorled like Isis to Osiris, 14 times my love's grand. For mere worshippers, your sight a creation and a flock flowing with heart-shaped ears. A ration of our love, our hands as oars of damnation to steer the years and pierce hearts with spears. Your temples, irreligious, where we meet, m...

Jesus Calming the Storm - Gustave Doré Chanting Beneath Chanting beneath the doors we cannot reach, to drive us from being happy, for what shall we preach? Behind the glass lie glass hearts between walls of glass, Tearing souls en masse, without the brass, turning us into mass. To what degree may it feel extreme for thee? To watch the sea of mass or to make us plea? Rivers red, skies blue, hearts dark, With a world none other than stark. An experimental poem. May or may not serve any purpose. Regardless, it enriches this gallery. Created using 4 words: Happy, glasses, extreme, and colorful.