Secundus Journey

 The Suicide of An Aggrandized Poet ACT I A dusty, preposterous shelf lies among the objects of a time now lost, deep within the traces of a heart, pulsating sacrilegiously not to abandon what made it     alas, why would it for it's     flesh-made, an aberration but to awaken a reminiscence, so begins the tale of the unfathomable, Decimation of souls on a silver plate with a knife of a thousand ache, a fork with tine of a goat's hoof, and a spoon of a blind man's hand, the feast began. On an April day of a gloom rain,     yet the rain brought us         a wave of life, no? I went down a hill that left a stain to chain a soul of a swain to a wain that would reign the remarks of feigned months that I wore as a mane in sights plain. For a hollow coil, the world at my command, A sycophant, my heart, thrilled once at a bus station on a rainy April day. Days and months, predecessors of a fountain flooded red with passion and drowned of in...

Rain Hell Upon Scar by _trisly Hollow chants ringing my ear, When none left to hold dear. To be reminiscent of ages past is to shatter dusk for love's fast. Woe upon me, startled by hands that no longer mine, rivers blur. A gateway to mind's hell, They boil for a foul soul fell. Once the room hushes into void, Ailment to be condemned, I the lone wonderer of a heart devoid, Gasps on to a few heart's strings Annihilation falls upon my shoulder not to reborn, but for a soul to smolder. For combustion to set a blaze me is hell's call, God's to praise. Hollow chants, disturbed flames, a soul visage of what it was. Stuck in a darkness of claims my death, an applause, through Her claws. Once the man ate the apple Was it tyranny or curiosity? Once her temple down I rippled, Was it atrocity or ferocity? We, the untamable beasts, linger, As the greatest of darkness whisper. For every endeavor good, the thin line of our lives' chaste devour us. As the veins of unkind are f...

  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...

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.

Lektionen - Malin Mellryd Of Towers and Gardens Afar from the castle, beseech, lies a bloodied petal, clasped by a leech. Yet, atop the castle remains a man, his thoughts a dungeon, his mind a den. What is a man if no observer? Driven by passionate fervor Engulfed by flames, ferocious And to witness you, a crime atrocious. Yet, even if the dipping blood runs through stems yours and mine, cutting tongues. The garden owns not the man, nor the castle. a facile recrimination, worthless hassle. Castle o' man, such bloom and gloom, As the petal feigns, it creates his tomb. Why a petal not to be taken for granted becomes the torment, his heart has chanted. Whose grace does it beleaguer? A confrontation, hollow, yet eager. The scent of soil, her bloom harmonized  la soul decart, baptized. If and when the castle collapses, Thy time is now, one hand relapses. All but none, we the devotees of your harvest, now drowning in soil, in your farthest. But it is not the drop of blood, Nay, to sust...

  M. C. Escher - Omhulsel AMOUR A is for an arrow of fate, thrown by Eros while         autumn leaves falling, surrounding us          not without its void, creating abandonment          like an abyss, once gone, the arms surrounding us. M is for memory, which besieges our temple,          yet like a mist in which you wander,          moments to disappear, with and against          like a moonlight that guides us -- your visage.   O is for oblivion, like a lovelock,          orbiting around the veil I am shattered.               Perhaps to invite open hands or                    oceans to drown me in vastness, comfort, or danger. U, for all me, to unite loose soul threads          and we...

The Nurse And I quote, "To have such essence paving way for our heart's incandescence is heresy within souls' verity and shaking me, pure asperity." No fall on Earth is reminiscent of such a visage, leaving fidelity sufficient. Trembling me from a far is no miracle, yet here you are, an account lyrical. Beheld in the visions of blazing thoughts melting hearts as I am praising. An aspect of beauty blooming petals every step and an heart cannot settle. Two wanderers, one ablaze from a moment, fractured, gazing upon Her as a heaven, fallen, enraptured. And Her, an image of imagination, fecund, An idea, shunned, and each step, stunned. What is a man if not a pursuer of dreams to bring forth hands connecting at seams? Alas, this but a mere moment, fractured, and there my image, in awe, captured. A sense of wonder and reverence, fleeting between my feet, treating it as a meeting with no unity and a greeting, repeating a heart that is heating and a purpose, self-defeating. H...

 The Sundial in the Garden The Sundial in the Garden —after afternoons unwitnessed Beneath the cloisters' sighing shade, Where ivy grieves the stone, I stand where lovers softly laid Their secrets into bone. I, time’s obedient servant, stay— A brass throat kissed by sun— Yet no warm hand has turned my way, Nor touched the hours I run. Around me drift the springtime pairs, With hair like drifting flame; Their fingers write in midday airs What I could never name. A head upon a chest reclines, Their temples in duet; Their breath explores each other's spines— A pact the soul forgets. I mark each pulse. I hear the knee Brush softly against thigh. Their shadows curl around the tree As mine just points and dies. Their laughter, like a distant song, Spins circles in the air— Not unlike that endless wheel That winds the windmill’s stare. They trace the arches of the brow, The jawline's sacred bend. The lips are doors they enter now And I, outside, preten...

 All Past Girls Now Sunny Meadows Not much of a tale dare we speak of and also bitter the tongue that speaks of it now, a vile beast that looms. Long have I grown meadows that once sprinkled with ashes, that smell like love. Once banquet for eyes, now a husk. All the meadows that I grew, and dare I say, quite a few, ruptured a fragment of my soul leaving the shell of a man. All the girls that I loved smelled like sunny meadows. Reminiscent of that bloom fills the heart, and the heart that blooms. All the girls that I loved smelled like sunny meadows. Like a smell that shall never leave but alas, one you never preserve. All the girls that I loved smelled like sunny meadows. Stems made of passion to stem the blood that soaks the petals. All the girls that I loved once danced in my meadows. Often rainy, we, the wet peasant, devoured the gifted, the above. All the girls that I loved once laid their compassion to rest. Where the hollow meadow grasped soaked their souls with peace. All t...

By Henry Doubnez Imbued Verses Singing a song whose words I do not know, but reflections that are imbued to my soul losing to my mind's projections. The feeling is always the same, starting with a stimulation. A prospering combustion that strikes the heart, never fading. I stare at my verse, seeing your name, never stopping my flame. And they pray that we meet thy sight, une rose ornée d’épines. Don't want to live in a world where my verses wither, like a flag furled not to show, but to burn my spirit for an isolation, now split. Looking back now I realize all that is written, an epilogue. A plastic chapter dedicated and a world that was never real. Dressed like a mirror, hoping that you notice not to shatter but to prosper my heart's matter and see the beauty you bring. Surface is shattered, the shell is  gone and freeing what is within an empty tomb, yet une rose qui fleurit and what a scent, cleansing my tomb. If this is how a song ends, whisper it but only from you can ...

The World Is A Caterpillar The world is a caterpillar, With strings of life as a thriller, A gift bestowed upon me, the life And that I yearn for a strife. The world is a caterpillar And I feast upon your sight, a killer. Obnoxious like a man with a lingerie on his head? Like a caterpillar, eating it on bed with all threads dead. The world is a caterpillar And now collapsed a majestic pillar. Naked we came and shred our skins, Like a caterpillar, whimsical our sins. The world is a caterpillar And I am no lady killer. But I know how to steal strings And give my partner her wings.  The world is a caterpillar,   And in your presence, I am the hunger,   Nibbling at the edges of desire,   With every touch, I draw closer, higher.   The world is a caterpillar,   And in your embrace, I surrender,   We entwine like leaves in a whisper,   Shedding the weight of what we remember.   The world is a caterpillar,...

  Michele Giorgi ft. Claude Monet. "Ninfee" The girl who ran through my halls The moment I saw you running in my halls was when I knew that my love stalls. A moment, elapsed, washes over us, My final trope, where our eyes meet thus.   The burning sensation of inevitability washes over, Rehearse my words and consider me no pushover. Dwindle in dreams and reshape my quill, Thus cut it out and let the blood spill.   Dance me to the eclipse’s end where you Knew the cue for my heart’s true hue. A company, your naked hand is sheer bliss, A challenge to be lost in your eye’s abyss.   Now as my verses and lyrics run and roam your eyes The twin flames that surround my poetry is no more; Thus, I am free. Have I no understanding of a girl that burns the hand that writes? But to burn within the gaze of your sight is to reborn from my ashes, leaving behind dusk. And just as night time approaches, my verse like a beast, hunts the lady of a forest. Fret not, as to tame my verse is ...

  A Puritan Embodied of a mind puritan, Such a sacrilege to breathe The air you have and seethe For our eyes made him a madman.   Like a canvas hanging on my heart’s threads, Every memory succumbs to pillaging souls that once played in harmonious roles, Now lays deep on blood-soaked beds.   For a no one he was, with A dwindling spirit and death Consuming his rotten breath, His flame, now no more than a myth.   For a canvas she was, with Greatest of creations bestowed upon and a magnum opus showed, Her colors on a heart’s farm as a scythe.   He was no artist, yet he saw The ripped sight of the maw That harnessed the invitation to hell That bid the greatest farewell.   My name is death and I find it beautiful to sin. Where a drink is what you deny, I leavy my mark with a grin.   The beauty to sin as a man, crafty, is to become your verdict’s vigilante. The wine’s delight is like a bell cor...

Sarah Fier’s Cursed Hand by Houston Sharp   Post-mortem With each spin, my doom's wheels are turning and bringing the unending and blinding collapse of shadows  to an ending by coalescing. Finite lives, infinite questions, Shattering you inside my fractions Unsure of my arrival, how and when, A room with a dark green curtain is not welcoming, but devouring me. Questions form: Have I descended?      perhaps        I          have. Finite lives, infinite questions, Shattering you inside my fractions. Not long after, I am in a dark room with a behemoth of light hanging on top. It steals from me, my light's embassy, Pouring blood down my throat in a frenzy. Finite lives, infinite questions, Shattering you inside my fractions Approaching behind the light is a doc with green gloves, that is for sure. He blabbers about putting the pieces together, he forms a smile with his gloves....