Exigent Silhouette

Inability to release, a travesty;

Incapable of forgetting, a burden.

Forged in this life, a via dolorosa;

An open-ended conclusion, a scourge.

A resolute quietus, a solecism;

A diffident life, an ire.

Never to be exacted, a vendetta;

To ever forget, a sweet release.

To dance with the Angel again, a gaiety;

To be unfettered by this Demon… a joie de vivre.

“I couldn’t face a life without your light… it took the death of Hope to let you go…” — Corey Taylor

The Call Of Crimson

I was the breath inside your

Failing lungs;

I was the life you never grasped.

I was the warmth that caressed

Your frozen heart;

I was the flame inside your eyes.

I was the blood in your rotting

Veins;

I was the death you could have

Embraced.

I was the one that watched you die,

All the while pleading for your

Attention.

Untitled

Living with death,

Buried in a coffin of thorns

While the nails are driven,

Sealing me within.

The barbs slice deep,

The filth bleeding into

The casket, this agony

A comfort in this

Moribund moment.

This torment or subsistence,

Such a choice:

Accept one pain or choose

Another anguish;

This is the end, I have

Surrendered my fate to this

Tomb

Life-Death

Angels that dance in the light,

Demons that play in the night,

The suffering cannot be known.

When time dies in the night,

And the angels cry in the light,

The suffering cannot be known.

When the demon finds its angel,

And the angel discovers its demon—

The angel cannot understand, 

And the demon cannot comprehend;

When hope dwindles in the light

And agony breeds in the night,

The suffering cannot be known.

When the angel falls and dies

And the demon cannot continue

Living—

Everything begins to fade in the light

And all dies in the night,

The suffering cannot be known.

Unrequited Grotesque

Draped in the fallen feathers

Of angels long gone,

I lay in the ashes of destruction

Wondering where it all began…

Or where it ends, delusional

With thoughts of you still

As i grind my nails, this cross, the seal

These thorns tearing my veins.

These vows held within my soul

Are but words of smoke;

These proverbial premonitions,

Fragmented thoughts of how we were,

A broken promise not yet spoken.

Swaying my love for a paragon,

The memory that fleeted in me

Like feathers on winds beyond,

The ashes that fall.

Within this destructive depression,

I find myself searching for the

Wings that shed their feathers,

And now my wondering takes me 

Back to where it all began…

This Dying Fire

I mourn your agony,

I pray for your sentience, for

I can see the black your brokenness

Bleeds,

I can hear the screams your soul

Never utters;

I have felt the suffering of the

Hollow,

I have stood where you lay dying.

How can you collapse within

When I am fighting your war?

your vacant quietus will never

Be lamented if you fall here.

Your cowardice feeds the death

within your heart,

Yet you plead for salvation;

I do not understand why I continue

To stand in your place.

Now is the time for your

Final stand, 

Now is the day of your

Supremacy;

Now is your chance for 

Redemption,

Now is the moment for you to

Consume this blade, to

Embrace this flame.

I have drawn this line in the ash,

Now where shall you stand?

Fate Consumed

Why does Death seem like such an ally?

The one who was supposed to be my

Harbor of Rest, turned out to be

Fear, the artist that painted this

Demise.

Sorrow guided Fear’s brush,

And Death watched as I

Drowned in Agony’s Sea,

Flailing for freedom and still

Sinking ever deeper in Agony’s

Embrace.

As my final breath escapes me,

Fear and Sorrow put the finishing

Touches on their canvas: a depiction

Of my inundation, Agony overwhelming

My corse, while Death clasps my hand

To bring me to Purgatory.

The Evanescence Of Mourning

My Kutless heart has learned

The Art Of Dying, if only to

Numb the sorrows of awakening;

To bring serenity as I drown

In this Puddle Of Mudd called

Existence.

So here I stand, idly watching the

Dead Poetic lines that so very

Clearly describe the outcomes

Of all paths less chosen in my life,

Believing that All That Remains

Was this meaningless existence

Amidst the Disturbed, awaiting the

Day Of Fire.

You came along, like the Lamb Of God,

Bringing salvation to my dying essence,

Taking the Flyleaf in the book called

My life, and filled it with your beauty.

You taught me that, to remain Trapt 

In sorrow is to enslave myself to the

Hatebreed, and to Rise Against those

That would ensnare me in their grief.

You took my dreams, and made them

Reality, fulfilling my lifelong Nightwish;

To feel the undying love of another,

The warm embrace of angels.

Let your compassion Shinedown

Upon me, and one day, As I Lay Dying,

Let your love envelop me and alleviate

My fears of death.

Now, as the Shadows Fall, I can feel 

This Staind soul Bleeding Through the pain

Suffered between us;

Smile Empty Soul, for you shall see her

Again.

A Plaint In The Night

A dolorous man sits alone

In a tenebrous oubliette,

Staring at his shadow

Cast by the lambency

From above.

Unable to recall why he was

Here, he sat, watching this

Figure of himself dance in the

Fading refulgence.

“I can hardly see you anymore,”

He confabulates to his silhouette;

“You were always there, helping

Me through it all, and now this

Darkness encroaches upon us.”

“You can leave anytime you want”

Came the susurrant reply of the 

Man’s profile; “just climb out, and 

Follow me;” the gloom then entrenches

Upon him, and his stygian ally

Vanished into the black.

He starts to reach for the exit, 

But the dark is heavy,

So heavy; he falls back to the

Earthen floor, smothered by the

Night; the small voice reverberates

In his head: “follow me”.

He began to frantically clamber

For the egress, yearning for

Manumission;

Scrambling for the portico 

Once more, he could feel the

Darkness, ferreting for him;

“Follow me,” came the murmur

Again, and the gloaming

Pulled ever harder;

However, he overcame

The murk, and circumvented

To the sanctuary above,

Where he rejoined his

Shadow.

What Bleeds The Tranquility

As I wander through these barren streets,

Beholding this dead town, graffiti

Scrawled on the lifeless edifices

All tell the tale of the Thief that 

Absconded my Identity.

I continue my journey, wading through

The trash and debris of this city,

Trying to find the Brigand;

Grasping his note, I try to read it,

But the words are obscure—

His instructions I can no longer see

To find my Face again.

Beyond the boundaries of the city,

I find a cemetery, edifices and memorials

Of those long gone;

But the headstones are illegible,

For time and weather have had their way

With the gravestones.

Upon one tombstone, I see, sits another note

Held in place by a black rose;

I try to read the note, but all I can see

Is a single word: tree.

I see a charred tree in the distance,

Sitting upon a small knoll;

I approach the hill, a tremble setting

In my hands.

I approach the tree, to find the

Rustler sitting beneath the branches,

But my worst fears have come true:

I am the Thief.

A Caress Of Shadows

A small child, lost within

A dark forest, his imagination 

Flight, monsters and

Shadows dancing in the

Twilight.

He continues to press forward,

Searching for sanctum;

The thickening night

Obtruding ever closer upon

Him.

His journey brings him to the

Remains of a house, forgotten

With time;

He wanders inside, in search of

Solace, an escape from his

Monsters.

As the Shadows observe the child,

He lies down in the center of the den,

And drifts into his dreams,

Where he is king.

Sharon's Wilting Rose

I run, ducking into alleyways,

Trying to hide from the man

I killed;

Fear’s grip grows strong

As it clenches my heart,

Panic weighing heavy

On my mind.

I duck behind the garbage,

Trying to evade that gentle

Voice;

He calls to me, begging me

To return home.

I dump the knife amidst the

Trash, trying to wipe the

Blood from my hands;

His pleas, echoing on the

Walls of the alleyway.

I cannot face my kill,

I cannot confront my design;

His calls tear at my soul,

And yet… I cannot accost

The Undying.

Loveloss

Everything dims…

My heart bleeds from

My pain—your blade—

All the while I suffer silently.

You watch as I hemorrhage

From the gaping wounds

In my chest, where your

Name is carved, where

Your knife ran through.

You observe the failing

Of my being, placing the

Knife you ran through my

Heart, at my side, after carving

Your name into my chest

With a smile.

While I searched for truth,

You bred only lies;

Your name is Thanatos,

And Deception your blade

That you used…

To end my life.

Never Mourned

When your eyes can no longer see my darkness,

WHen your heart can no longer feel my hell;

I shall bleed the blood of another,

And I shall exist amidst the deceased.

This life is but ash,

And my soul but dust;

I am nothing but a scarred vision

In the mirrors of reality.

Like a a cigarette

Burning at both ends,

I decay from within;

All the while,

Your eyes can no longer see my darkness,

And your heart can no longer feel my hell.

What Bleeds The Tears

To the decrepit hand of your Hero you cling,

While in a sea of apathy your Redeemer drowns.

Your transparent Champion, shattering

In the gale you watch;

On his sleeve your heart bleeds the pain

Of victorious failures;

Into the ruse of your Victor you play:

His a face of the mighty, and a soul of the frail.

Your false Savior, defeated and broken is he,

Hiding your ears from the truth:

Your Hero, the Blind One shall ever be

In this barren wasteland of

Forgotten dreams.

One Last Goodbye

Sauntering through empty streets,

My confidante lost along the way,

Boarded windows watching me like

Hollow chimeras.

With every step I take, the silence

Encroaches ever closer upon me,

My partner’s blissful words reverberating

In the back of my mind like silent

Whispers.

Vacant buildings, garnished in dust

My only vista,

My footfalls the only sound;

I cannot recall when or where or how

I lost my kindred soul:

Not a face, a smile, a caress, a laugh

Can I recollect, just darkness;

Just a burning hole in my heart that

My friend used to occupy.

As I sulk deeper into my loneliness,

I notice there are buildings no longer,

But rather I stand at a crossroads:

My heavy soul still unable to decide,

I continue to stare at the blank guidepost,

Willing an answer from the quietude…

Until finally, my lonesomeness answered

My question, and I began my somber

Wanderings once again, alone.

A Mission In The Mansard

Like forgotten photographs

In the attic, it resides in 

Seclusion, heed never

Paid despite its worth.

It remains in a soiled box,

Seen, but never regarded;

Shifted and neglected

Whilst in search of

Forgotten memories.

Time fades into the black,

Yet it still remains 

Sequestered,

Ever to be disremembered

And disregarded like a

Vagabond of the garret.

What Bleeds The Tourniquet

Watching the blind soul wander
This barren wasteland of forgotten
Dreams,
The mirrors in the desolate trees
Reveal that what he cannot see:
The firmament bathed in crimson,
The earth swathed in ash.

With eyes stapled shut, and
A heart sewn tight, the Blind One
Continues his aimless journey,
Ever forgetting his life-wish.

When memories are but dust
Scattered to the four winds,
The essence but sand
In the hands of the Grim--
The Blind One shall be the guide
As he wanders this barren wasteland
Of forgotten dreams.

Beyond

its like wandering through an empty cemetery

its like roaming through a fireless hell

this emptiness, raging through my heart.

its like hearing a voice in the distance

incapable of discerning what is spoken;

its like gazing at a canvas half finished,

never to fully comprehend the artists’

Desires.

why can i not put words to this 

blackness?

why can i not describe this darkness in my

soul?

my heart lingers beneath these crimson

florets,

ever desiring to be free of this shadow’s

shackles.

a failing yearning for meaning,

a dying aspiration for reason;

in the end, i am nothing more...

than a fading memory.

My Chronicle's End

As my pain nears its time,

My mind wanders through memoir’s fog

Seeing the dreams long past

Like porcelain portraits,

A gallery of things lost.

Whilst my wanderings,

I notice several of the

Fragile photos are

Draped with white petals

Like first winter’s night;

As i watch the paintings

Unfold their silent scenes,

I see times of greater days

Spent with Her,

I watch as each work of art

Bears its own story,

Bringing me joy long forgotten,

Making me feel alive one last time,

Seeing Her again.

And now, as the angels grip my hand,

With promises of a better tomorrow,

I can see Her face again clearly

(so distinctly can I see Her radiant smile)

As She beckons me back to her side,

The only place I ever felt at home.