Rising Down

Thoughts bolting from end of the thunder dome to another
As curtains draw themselves across the windows of my eternal Self
And two suns illuminate the darkness occluding my deepest secrets.
Dreams are deferred for the fateful fulfilment of Fear as the genesis of Death.
My cup overflowing with emptiness, my silence my asylum;
My thoughts are a padded room sheltering a suicidal martyr fashionably attired in Reality’s straitjacket.

Where do all of the lonely loners go when all is said but none is done?
The World: A stage plagued by actors acting as though they actually act,
Where the song evades the vocal vibrations of the overbearing Fat Lady,
Singing off-key, heart on her sleeve, as though she took aim but could not match the range,
So her melody lulled me as a lullaby of enchantment.

Thoughts, of a blind artist painting a picture-perfect portrait from a film director’s perspective,
Bolting, like a bridegroom with frost-bitten feet,
To one end of the beginning of self-inflicted oppression,
From the Liberation found in the solace of our souls,
Between methodical madness motioning the loss of my mind in my heart,
Into the evolution of emotions, protruding from the confusion of my devotion,
Or, rather, yours in a vicious tug-o-war threatening our tomorrows, today.


To Love, is to Know, and know not to Fear.
To Fear is not Love, for Fear is encoded in tears.
To dream is to imagine, remembrance is despair;
Intrigue me with magic, believe in the air.

The air that I breathe is the breath of your voice,
Our bond, beyond brotherhood, embodies the Divine;
To break from this bind means that Death is my choice,
I awaken in a dream, finding sorrows that aren’t mine.

We are stained by regrets, and the ashes of our furnace,
Enchanted by the pain we kept beneath the scratches of our surface.
Our eyes mask our souls; illuminate the skies before the Dawn,
Our souls connect on contact, and a Y.O.Universe is born.

As Father God and Mother Earth conceive the seeds of life,
So, to sew sorrow invokes the loneliness of Satan;
Mary Magdalene kissed Judas, leading Jesus into strife,
But you have never Crossed me, so who am I to make these accusations?


Hypnotised by my self-condemnation, Doom looms, when I exhale my soul into a cloud;
Rising to new lows to discover and decode the symbols of the Past,
I become a ghost, arisen from the bloody pools of bloody baptism, drenched to the very mist,
A wisp marinated by the guilt which innocence butchered spills.
From a machine I ascend, and the illusion of Reality now is the lucid wonder I behold.
Walls are masked with mirrors; the corridors of my mind are walked with one eye open,
As I stalk the darkness, hoping that my reflection does not stand me up.
Doors panelled with locks and hinges open up to all which we reminisce in remembrance of.
I look at the world, on a passage through the frame,
And I notice that it is turning, while I always thought that I revolved around it.


But what is this that I see when the foggy moonlight turns into smoke,
And the people around me vanish into an epiphany masquerading belonging?
A glimmer of hope in the eye of the beholder; Behold! she is on the opposite side of the universe,
Spilling her voice out with tears from the phoenix falling from opaque eyes,
Blackened by the bludgeoning, blotching ink of my black words,
Whisking us into a rapturous memory I imagine never happened,
But that is to deny Creation’s occurrence in the Big Bang,
For as natural as it seems,
When we merge, our worlds collide,
Lighting the leading to a supernova that restores chaos to Heaven’s Order,
Quenching the embers and tempers of the fires in Hell.
When and Angel loves a Demon, then the Devil repent, and God must be just.
For Nostradamus failed to foretell what the Sisters of Fate devised in the Past,
Nor could I imagine an aeon’s distance between my palm and hers when she is only one thought away!


Be I the Fool for the Be-You-tiful, to profit from my losses.
I look into the sky, my crystal ball, on Earth playing poker with tarot cards.
Choreographing six steps to my downfall,
Searching for the Cause of the Cure as an anorexic lung cancer patient,
Smoking cigarettes because he misses the purity of his oxygen.


Now I wish that I could wake, I pray the Lord my Soul to take,
And if I die before I wake, I’ll for Y.O.U at Heaven’s gate.
In Death we part; in life we are apart.
Saint Peter has the Key, but I have got your Heart.
But I the Fool have suffered myself your anguish with language,
Brought damage wrapped and packaged for the deceptive destruction of Paradise,
Scorching Eden, forging the palisades of the City Dis,
With all the distance between us, how much further can I depart?
To die but twice was never my ambition;
You’re reaching out to me, but hands cannot hold on to Apparitions.
Death is proud; my life is your grave;
My Soul turned to dust upon which descended the tears from your face.


From an opaque canvas of possibility, your light gaze faded into a dimmed emptiness with every mute fragmented dialogue.
My casket lowered with Nobodies edged around my abatement;
A burial where the hole was filled by the sands of my insecurities,
Where the Living relocated to a pit beneath hollow screams and accusations steered by sorrow.
Motionless, without a blink, your tears struggled in a downhill swim from your hazel eyots,
Down the cheeks of an purity embodied by a cherubim,
Leading towards the vertexes of one once-broad smile stomped out entirely,
Down to your chin before plummeting like rocketing asteroids sent from Venus upon the mortification of Cupid,
Falling into the sand set to beset the start of a cemented settlement of sighs in the soil.
The salt from the tears cannot heal the scars behind our stitched up lips,
Because words unsaid are razorblades in the skin,
Tears are blood clots in the throat when in vain,
So our lacerations embrace the embers of dystopia.
We swallowed the tears, we swallowed the pain,
But the sweetest truth was coated in the bitter rags of lies decaying endlessly,
Reeking to the extent that the stench casts a foul atmosphere of mortified yesterdays into our necroses.


But I can no longer face you, for the soil speaks.
I awake to find no piece of mind, without peace of mine,
In a cell, where all are equally anonymous at Inception.
Clinging to bars broken beyond the boundaries of description,
Beyond the cohesion of Chaos.
My eyes are better gouged than witnesses of greedily engulfing Darkness
That indulges, grinds, and racks relentlessly.
Thoughts are better left unthought, feelings better numb than true,
In Days of Darkness Pain is polished,
Insecurities and Self-loathing cloak the lonely stoner smoking,
When he looks at his reflection and Sees but never Believes.
The monsters then arise and shake with roar the walls he built,
Before he hits the ground, submitting to Defeat.


White flags flying soon become blood-stained sheets upon which remains the remains of the Feast.
From his nostrils they claw their ways out into his disbelief,
What he sees makes him reject himself and chant the hopeless Songs of the Dead.
They ruthlessly devour their way into broad Darkness,
Rending his cheeks into strips,
And then confetti.
He could not scream, for his throat spilled claret which was gulped gladly out of bloodlust,
And the cage of his chest was forced apart, when his heart bulged before imploded,
And his empty belly was ravaged, becoming a butchery of debauchery,
A festival f evil accounted for when the Hounds of Hell were released,
And the Hunted preyed upon he who begged for Freedom,
Who dehumanised himself because all this grotesque disfigurement of Puppetry met God,
But he found and lost Love for lost and found Love,
And now all Pinocchio wants is to be a Real Boy!


That which is of itself cannot depart from itself;
Suicide is such a waste, because self-inflicted sores should be self-sewn.
Sorry seems as sly as serpents, lying upon the tongue stuck to its pallet,
Swollen by a solemn soul scared stiff beneath the surface,
Searching for a Purpose, swimming with Pisces in Aquarius, a Virgin.
Still I rise, for Death is but a Dream;
Still the Shadows follow me when I work my way into the Kiss of the Dawn,
In a reversed excavation, for illumination judged by social standards.


Nobody killed me, I was born Dead.
That which makes itself can break itself;
Self should walk the line of Difference to remain itSelf.
But Life is for living, at least, that’s what they told me.
Somehow I’m the only Invisible Man with a shadow among my friends;
On top of that, they dance like films on the wall against the surface of the candlelight of consciousness.


Now I am alone, and everything is just a screen,
Just a Dream, eclipsed by what is Seen.
As I rise, so I Fall,
In memory,
Whether or
Storm.