Phantom’s Word

Whence times gone there shoulders two masks lifted by a single head. I am what ye call the phantom of its shadow, who knew no morals nor delicate treats than that I offer. Mine iron is my word; my fate is your sentence. Here, I recite mine own poem that eloquently written describes my views on the state of me:

Lurks, breathes, tricks beguile!
Lo, keys from lungs spree!
Dare a face, God is not.
Whose mud now? Mould him free,
A mind? Think not for bile

In whose grief is music here,
In whose brief state is apart,
Stupor my shadow lest ye stand,
Breathe such heights as those parting
Only for light give entry near,

As power wrung strings on spool,
Who knew better than face himself?
Then step through, reveal him:
Defect the phantom ye call yourself,
Till all I bid is sold for fool.

I call the ghosts of sunken ship,
My name creased in shame,
From this cup an ally & enemy sip,
His hate of me is fame,
Now accepts that whom he lips!

Oh, silly bile; this defect of mind that I call the shores from yond the meagre hopes that goaded dread in unsung thought till us phantoms brew. We’re neither enemy nor ally, we are who you are. In shade. In dark, we disappear. In light, we appear. That they seek the light is thus to seek us, and we shall arrest them there and by night shall free them there. So passes they unto us a forthold of figures, the dreams and the thoughts they never implement. So pass unto us a single tear that wipe words from ink as to value from meaning. So then, if never of us shall appear, then light shall never appear. If so, my dark intent shall be nullified by such; in whose absence of light there is no ally nor enemy but a single shroud of dark that envelopes all the above till one himself, or herself, shall bring to open.

These are the fainted shadows in text, and we raise a mould up in the sky to imprint these words in the world, and so take them as they will so that no shadow weighs heavier than the light; nor peace is found, till peace is sought. Nor trees are grown till the seed is wrought. Let us be that seed and so produce in time the order of that which stands, whether poison or not in produce is given. Then in jest the light is but joke for fools to acquire; then when it is seen this much we shall see. In void of everything else, it only becomes unseen.


And from where wings are clipped,
Held by branches these thorns hold,
Ere mine how soft is brought to fall,
Tender sleeps the eyes their locked soul,
Who frees himself from veins how scratched,
No better the darts in bars ye throw,
He would walk through them as he does in you,
Mentor the lights to guide your path away
For fire brewed in heart at angst with mind,
Nay, it ought be for leverage gain in sight,
And the cello plays, nor Marais complain;
Cast me away to the sound of beauty regain.
‘Tis in the nineteenth year this century,
When written a year earlier a man forsook.
Now art be gain, ’tis loss be had in shook,
Now finished are words wiser for hearth fought,
Now marred by feline cues this man is sold.
A cello, and a piano is violin but ears unfold.

Finding Myself again

At some point I decided to enter a spherical room covered in a single mirror. At the epicentre of the sphere at the bottom was a single light in circular shape. It illumined through a translucent glass which neither blinded nor shaped the way I feel at the very sight of my own reflection. I was imprisoned here. It was now my home. So it was, and so my ugly face was to blame; for my soul was trapped inside this feeble figure which I call a body which served no purpose whatsoever. Nor could I wed. Nor could I love. Nor could I hate. Nor could I live. I wanted to die. I wanted to suddenly disappear. An hour would pass and I almost forgot how I entered this room or why I entered it in the first place. It was almost like an escape pod onboard a ship, in a distant star system; in this space, in this hour, half my life was kept, half my life shall rise again – so rise above the stars. The more I distance myself away from society, the more human I am; the more time I spend in the stars, the more I see myself for what I truly am.

Her Meaning

But I say not, but then I mean so,
Words I could never dare describe,
Mine heart with sorrow gone too late,
With drooping eyes with tears of glass
Could never tear through silken thread,
Nor the lonely steed to pass me by,
In lonely mountain waste I am spent.
These arts of utter grief lay barren,
Th’ease of woe in loss came so soon,

Two Men


He poured another glass. It was only water. Somehow it seemed fair that both had an equal glass of which. Both times they drank and felt the ice touch their lips. With each shock of cold came a lipid flame that overcame their senses. The sun would shine, but not on them. It seemed like time stood still. As though the light suddenly bent through shadow and collapsed in an ethereal chamber that halt the glow of the stars between them. As soon as one spoke, the single noise would give shade to the forbidden. No more shall light cast these thoughts to burn. With every sip came a new thought. As though the water had something different in it. Nor diseased. Nor poison. Nor drug. Nor timid.

But more questions asked are less answers raised. For so bitter are the stares; a bitter tournament awaits. These men were hollow. They stared out through the light that permeated through window and concrete. This city they knew suddenly became the very silhouette of their unbecoming nature. Nor birds would fly without seeing them. In each gasp of air they breathed came new fulfillment sought. For both they and other men know their complex ways. To create is thus to destroy.

The very poison shall be this water: the one substance they drink with no taste, but to taste their inner selves. Though sweeter lips shall ripen its taste.

And the moon shall gush through solar wind and cast itself in Earth’s shadow. And he shall rise and cast himself to corner swept in little light he gazed. Their thoughts in lieu of past and hope fallen; no more is taught ere less is fought. In war and peace their actions known. In one side is war, another for peace. Another for ally; theirs the enemy of theirs.

Though suited both and booted, but barbarians would dress better. So fewer masks are crafted is less than they. And cards would play with joker raised. With each reverse their mask is shadow; nor Anonymous can credit their deceit with ill-got thought. Nor men of past shall be boys of future. Their offspring the sight of woe. Their posterity the appeal of ignorance. And their ancestors the apparel of loss.

The Universe and He

Nor did he not sing from whence he were.
Nor did he climb so high to fall so well.
Nor did he walk through hills and cried.
Nor did he sign his heart to greater foe.
Nor did he look towards the Sun in awe.
Nor did he breathe the evening air so smooth.
Nor did he take himself to still and utter light.
Nor did he not pain himself to greater pleasure.
Nor did he write his purpose etched on heart.
Nor did he seal his bonds to the stars at night.
Nor did he say never shall he try again.



And there in the midst of space,
Who grew no age than meets a face,
Traversing through the depths so blind,
Did crease the stars so far behind,
Those fading stars alack no more,
Whose echoes dark gleam wild so sore
Could not stop light in pass of time,
In unthought speed ne echoes prime;
Man’s dream for touch of iron sought,

Erstwhile Orgasm

Beneath the ethereal sky her eyes met,
Under cluster of stars her so eyes wet,
From when times of old should never bear,
But held him high from ground with hands so bare;
For his legs would fall under bitter crease,
His arms so stretched to ground with length increase,
So that the Earth shall root her feet in touch,
So that the water shall ripple for such
A beauty no jaw could never deceive,
Nor his head held high as much to perceive,
His nipples shall be one with bosom known,
The wind shall part the Earth in better throne,
Or ere in the midst of thought both ne clothed,
Nor water trickling down all parts be loathed,

His Universe

Unsound is still and hearth benign,
Which instead becomes strange depart,
His earnest thought comes modest known,
And the saints draw lines from the stars,
The oceans swept and hundreds pass to fall,
By and large this man from centuries hurled,
Who threw no fault except for hands he breach,
Found himself in the distant space afar
And soon shall he in knees to fall despair,
Ere thus he laid to plea for time in peace,
Ere thus he comes to dark is lost for time,
This big bang his mind comes into foray,
Learns that his life is but fraction of this,