A Letter to a wounded Son

The words I feel when I gaze upon your countenance
Oh distant child of mine
A mother knows who shares her spirit,
She knows her kindred, for they bleed the same.
You are my shining light,
And that is why you take my actions so personally.
Perhaps you’ve grown comfortable with your distrust of women,
Or motherly figures who break your heart.
Maybe this is why all you know how to do
is bring up the moments I have stood in indecision.
It is a difficult rock to climb, but not every decision I make
is all about you.
There are choices I must make for myself.
Sometimes remaining above the fray of the human heart
is the brightest path.
Sometimes standing beside someone who has caused so much pain
is the only place to stand.

Awakening the Abyss

From the shadows, my eldest sister has come
With a kiss to awaken my heart,
The ancient dragoness, eldritch queen of the abyss,
Shining jewels of cerulean and jet are the stars in your eyes,
Explosions against the twilight horizon,
The velvet darkness with no end.

In my heart

Long ago and far away
There was just you and I.
Though we were ever so close,
So far apart.
In nostalgia, I see that now,
How lonely you were.
And then “she”appeared.
A most beautiful sight
Who came to you at night
To wash your tears away.

She was alluring,
And captured your heart
And in my youth I listened intently
As you retold the tale
In search of answers:
How could this be?
Who was she?
Would she come again?

I’ve never seen you so happy
But after the spectral lady had departed,
None of your ladies measured up.
In time they set you against women
Because none of them were quite like her.

My feelings were never a mystery,
For I always loved you.
But that was a chance I was unwilling to take
Because in the glint of your eye
It took me seconds to forecast
A life that was never ours.

And after all of the doubts,
Questioning the reality of dreams
and sensations,
Somehow managed to convince yourself
Of how she never even existed.

But of passions such as those
And an unquenchable thirst,
There was never anyone more deserving
Of the fleeting glimpses of happiness
That pass through our lives.

This is the gift I give to you,
The side of me you’ve never seen.

You asked me to teach my craft to you,
When you were strong in your relationships
with the spirits,
I was just sorting myself out
and neglectful of what you carried inside of you
In no condition to teach anything I had not yet learned, myself

When I had truly come of age,
and come into my own understanding
of exactly who and what I am supposed to be,
You had packed up your books and traded your cards
For a nihilistic, cold embrace.

Listen, before you cut your eyes out

Poor child,
In your eyes tears that cry out in anguish
For stars torn apart,
The March of armies tearing you from your mother’s breast
The sea green divide
Of thousands of aeons of loneliness and despair on the new planet’s surface

Poor child,
You’ve probably seen me in your age and wondered if modifying your body
Could give you back the sense of connection
With your brethren you lost so long ago
I can tell you it won’t.
All the makeup and surgery in the world
Couldn’t repair the damage to your soul.

Little one you are lost in a world that doesn’t recognize the old ones.
Nobody wakes to an old face and thinks to themselves: my gods this is me, static and unchanged.
There are reasons we are ancient,
and why we no longer walk the earth in the old form,
But there are those among us who walk in human skin,
who sing the old songs,
and tell stories by the seaside,
waiting for our tormented brethren to wander along,
Priests and priestesses of our mysteries wait to sing our souls back home,
And without them we would be lost, swimming in an endless chasm, waiting for the world’s end.

The Wailing and The Waiting

My skin stains blue,
with tears that will never dry.
The space surrounding me,
bleeding with colors of every kind.
the human condition, so fragile,
and I need to know if this is all an illusion,
so I play the game,
yet none of these safeguards can negate
what I feel in my heart,
and I know you still call me in your sleep.
Sometimes you weep.
I am listening.
I’ve never stopped listening to your heartbeat
as it races through my ears,
it is as if you are lying in my arms.
My greatest fear is to repeat history,
its funny how art imitates life.
The time has come for you to make a decision,
find me if that is your will.
I need to know how serious you are, this time.
Its a far better fate than listening to you cry in the night,
For the woman you left behind.

The Czarina’s Eulogy

They still write about us,

they don’t know why.

Our memories live on,

through their worlds and song,

Maybe they envied us,

our glory and our wealth,

Doubtful they may long for

our struggles and sacrifices.

 

They still talk about us,

in media and in revelry,

History only ever painted half of the story.

They still spend their lives,

in the search of what motivated us,

Our psychology, our politics, our mysteries,

and desire to be shocked and dismayed

When they think they’ve learned the truth.

 

But they still don’t know us.

They haven’t worn our shoes,

fought our battles,

bore our children.

 

In the context of history,

we were inspired by contemporaries,

Who shaped the times in which we lived.

We who lived in the golden age,

paved the road for the present world,

A world of iron and death.

Hence their preoccupation

with the palaces of painted gold,

and the resplendence of the high castle.

Paralysis

Sleep, the anesthetic
For the drowning pain that floods my senses
I spent so much time misty-eyed,
Hovering in the abyss,
Barely hanging on
And desperately searching for a hand
To pull me back over the edge of the cliff,
But there was none,
Just eyes, critical and terrified
To touch the wild, lucid flood
And a haphazard surgeon
With a laser trigger finger,
Ready and willing to make the necessary repairs.
In this world of flesh and emotion,
The only thing more frightening than a life devoid of human emotion
Is a life in excess of it.