I showed you the sea, giving you dark deepness filled with memories, the storm clouds gather over us, as I place the last kiss on your salty skin. you told me I was sent from the depths, to quench your thirst and feed your heart you offered me pain and sweet ecstasy, milk and honey, strange, bittersweet. I told you do not miss me, as your heart pumps sea water already, my soul fled when you touched me for the first time. I took your hand and forgave you, my body covered with fins, ashes fell from the sky, when the flame faded out, leaving beads of pearls on the sand.
Era Oscuro

those little men
encrusted with paint and ink into paper
hues on their armor, mystery in their eyes
shifting in my mind, rolling with curiosity within my heart

those little creatures
frog looks at me with its third eye
cat’s face human-like – it enters my dreams
tempting to open the grimoire once more

I studied history… long time ago. It was fascinating subject, dripping with both beauty and obliviousness of old ages. I clung to it, because it was settling me somehow in our times – I was able to be who I want to be, without resigning from my passion, not necessarily fitting in, with one foot in the past; but that didn’t matter when I was opening them.

Books.

Old, new, breathing ages and centuries through what was inside. Art, wars, culture, believes… it all was there, ready to be absorbed. Like a vital essence I needed, a water of life against normalcy and common life.

What I remember most, were simple medieval paintings, tiny lads with uncanny faces, mysterious creatures of unknown origin. There be dragons. And not only dragons, there were other, even more fantastic beasts, who I tended to copy and stick in my room. They were my passion, my coping mechanism and my door to enchanted garden.

And while most were delightfully creepy and odd, I couldn’t but smile at the humoristic ones, the best example is internet-circling man who smiles while other man pierces his head with a knife.

Secret garden knows honest laughter, secret garden tempts with fae, three-eyed frogs… and happily-murdered people.

I miss my books. I want to return to them. But as middle ages prove, everything passes. My Era Oscuro ended, blended with darkness, with its young sun and clear skies. And little knights with swords where they shouldn’t be.




Auri

my wooden ring is a shell
keeping your secrets closed
in the soft membrane
do you hear the voice of the sea?

my key is a stellar wing
it will open the moon
if you want to steal its secrets
it shines with light from the worlds above

my coin guards your dreams
and when you see my shadow on the windopane
the scent of holly berry will guide you
into the windswept forest

far from danger, far from sun




God of the Sun

So… again coming back with my Indiana Jones ranting.

Interior World would be a guilty pleasure, if I believed in guilty pleasures. I am not ashamed of reading this sillily written book. I just enjoy my nostalgic trip to when I was 12, eating crunchy apples straight from my garden and cared only about if next day will be filled with sun.

Now, again is sunny, world spins like crazy and I only miss these juice-apples to be fully happy with my Indiana not-so-much guilty pleasure.

I hang the glitter stars on the sun rays and become a Sun God of my childhood.




Ghosts and Birds

I am reading “Indiana Jones and the Interior World”… and honestly wanted so badly that the ghost ship was REALLY a ghost ship.

You know… mysterious and rainy chilean town… even more mysterious paintings showing the ghost ship… birds… ah the birds, they come from nowhere!

But then… no ghost ship.

Ugh.




Quill and Ink

The more I write – of my novel, of my poetry, of my silly thought about books, of detailed description of Louis de Pointe du Lac – the more assured I am that if not so called quill and ink, I would not be alive anymore.

Quill and ink. The reason to wake up at morning and the reason to feel that tiny love for myself. Because I created the worlds in which I live. Earth is falling down, but my own still spins and blooms with white flowers.




Bonfire Night

We will dance among the sparks, today. Sisters of the nights that passed and blended with the shadows. Sisters of the moonlit meadows that appear in the corner of the eye.

Fire will rise with red and yellow, a sharp creature devouring the wooden kindling. We will cast spells and chant curses and we will all dive into flames, to reborn again.

And between a rock and grass, we will find a solace for a witchful heart.

Spring blooms with green and we will bloom with vermillion. Silhouettes against the darkness, a spin of life and death. Fiery tangles caught in the branches’ cradle, hands held high to reach stars.

A first kiss of the queen of May, a blessing from the green maiden.




Lemur [Derogatory]

Current world level: Hurry up, before we all come to our senses!

But what fits to oblivious lemur who thinks is a king, not necessary suits whole planet Earth.

Amusement level: 0.

 




Go To Hell (I Rule There)

Once upon a time, a woman who was not used to see goths in natural environment, said that if I listened to “such” music and wear “such clothes” – I will certainly go to hell,

It’s a red-hot, terrible place where demons pour cat urine on souls and make them listen to tirades about last visit to the tax office or doctor, or about spine pains.

I would answer her this way, trying to shine with sarcasm and knowledge of the afterlife.

But I really didn’t care and was evil enough to look at her with superiority and just walk away.

And I’m sad. Because now I would probably wrap the woman in a Machiavellian web of irony and in the end it would only end up with lost time and a sore tongue.

Death by irony is always paintful – as the good old quote from the Lara Croft forum says. People are hopeless, none the less. It’s hard to be a black fae in their crazy world.




Code It!

I am revamping tons of websites. And oblivious on protests made by my mind [ and hands and soul and heart ] I rage that I am not able to code my own wordpress site.

I tried many times, but this form of coding is beyond my skill. Gods filled me with sense of beauty [ or ar least I hope so ], poetry, appreciation for nature, being amazed by sun filtered through leaves… made me a fae… but they didn’t…

… give me abillity to code wordpress.

Technology is evil. So vicious…




Pandora’s Box

I filled myself with love placed in dark places, in rotten hearts, I saw my mishapen reflection in wrong eyes. These eyes… mirrors of black side of my soul. I watered love faint as gossamer, hoping to grow an oak. My mind created mirages, each of them tempting with oasis of juicy fruits.

I knew that I walk the stone path, avalanches falling on both of us, snow covering the budding trees, flowers withering under a touch of our poisoned affection.

I reached for black holes, to create a sun, which sucked strength from my world, grinding my life with gravitation. I ate gravel, enchanting it into raspberries and peaches.

The stars never shined as bright as in moment when it ended. Blinding me with freedom, pushing the wind inside my lungs, pulling the breath out.

Freedom, which become stained with guilt and copper patches of corrosion.

While freedom lasted, my wings were white as snow, my feathers softer than cat’s purr. I know what shape they gained now, I know which color they took. Feathers turned into membranes, snow melted to uncover the battered grass.

Pandora’s box opened to release glowing nightmares into the world. I will hold to remaining hope. Curses and chants, spells and fullmoons, my life spins the thread in place the one that was cut.