Solstice

Where, friend, is your solstice now?
The point of no return long past;
are we still waiting winter out,
with not one longer day to last?

I feel dark air runs from old wounds,
from callus on the heels of wars.
My reason died with theirs alike;
cursed by time, and crossed by stars.

Don’t pray for one made in my kind,
but scatter all my legends dry.
For good’s sake, for what it’s worth
there’s still no meaning in this cry.

Go out then, seek the truth held dear,
but nevermore restrain my fate.
O shall I freeze my time and heart,
to wait out winter in bless’d hate.

Overture

Angelic, blessed creature’s soul
it’s midnight now, and calm the storm
let passion break from bounds and form
for She then claimed my heart as toll

untied, unfold, the beast of things
Celestial, so deep and pure,
Her eyes promised me overture
in symphonies of red heart strings

We’re winding all o’clocks forth pleasure
then not the seizures of our past,
but a future’s shadow newly cast,
is today’s most righteous measure.

Star-crossed

All bridges were crumbling that day,

too much did they bear of their sway;

just ashes remain of their prime.

Say they, yes, all wounds heal in time.

And if those words too will betray?

Which boundary will they cross tonight,

what hides behind pride in plain sight?

Like glass shards the dreams spread before;

who dares still to tread them once more,

to bleed full of bliss and of blight?

And iron cloaks clouding the mind;

from here is no goal nor a find.

Her eyes are star-crossed, so are mine,

and tomorrow can not realign,

in any shape, nor form, not kind.

Clockwork

I'm in hell.

No, not quite. But the anticipation of the coming fall is as if I'm already there.

It makes no difference. Whether I'm dead already, I mean, or simply feel like it all has ended today. The world turns anyways.

And, yes, the clock's still ticking. Tick and tack, and tack and tick. I'm waiting for the tock, the single beat out of beat, the one chime that changed it all. The circle, the monotonous cacophony of everlasting indifference around me.

And tick and tack.

I can feel my nerves grinding against the inside of my skull. Like maggots of doubt and guilt. They feast on my eyeballs, taking away the sight for truth and beauty. God, World, you're so damn ugly today.

And tack and tick.

I reach out for certainty. Another cigarette in my mouth, who gives a fuck if I care, if I go, and where?

Home is where your heart is.

Home is where your heart is.

Home is where your heart is.

And tick and tack.

Do you see what I'm seeing?

Monotonous. Repetitive. All-consuming and indifferent.

Repeat the same phrase over and over again, and all makes no sense whatsoever. Home is where your heart is. No meaning. Home is where your heart is. Shallow words, hallow gestures.

Much like a clock stuck in a loop.

And tick.

But the world keeps turning. Even in hell.

And tack.

Home-sick

We take the names we once possessed,
and lay them 'pon our eyes to rest,
for they may see the soul as star.

Though we walk tired, we march far.


Are we now doomed for all etern',
seek we no more, yet, still we yearn?
Like dead, the crows lead our way,
farther more on paths astray.

So look we back to sorry lot,
we were not child, though grew we not.
What's left from there, what we once knew,
but many crows and from us few?


Forgotten, the names we never deserved.
Faded, the eyes from souls unnerved;
Are we but a face in dust of our time.

So we walk bleak from what was us prime.


We are but crumbs for crows to pick,
naught more than restless, wicked, sick.
Tired of a world unknown;
The world to which our home has grown.