In about three week’s time,

Not long after the year

Once more be gone anew,

I shall release the fear

Without figure or rhyme –

Though without losing mine –

And untangle the vine

And its twisting sinew

To attempt to express

What I have left to guess,

I will attempt the leap,

Surrender faith to jump,

To keep face don’t undo,

For I can no more keep

This growing painful lump

That time and space plunder;

To hell with sage senses!

Be it my Waterloo,

Mine the consequences

Were I broke asunder…


Do or do not, there is no try.

Hearth’s Ong


Look how they tear down our clouds, they steal our rivers,

They say we should be proud that we are such givers,

They eat our old forests and they burn out our sun,

Saying we cannot rest, that we have had our fun,

They drown out the oceans and scatter the deserts,

They consume the wild winds as main course and dessert,

They dry out the fountain and they empty the horn,

They melt down the mountains and they thaw of the thorn,

They claim the horizon and then reach far beyond,

They slow twist the reason and makeshift the respond,

They say that our great minds have found a solution

Then believe they make death in live threads, and needles,

They count away our breaths in innocent wheedles

As they brandish notions such as absolution,

They take away our land, they shackle our freedom,

But do not try to leave, but do not try to come,

They say they firmly stand for universal peace,

Oh watch them as they grieve, tearing it piece by piece,

They loan our deaths away, they trade the future now,

They make the whole world sway with all that they allow,

They see and take and break as children make a fuss,

Leaving ___ in their wake; but, see you not? They are Us.


I feel this still needs a bit of work to reach the impact I want to give it and for it to give to others, but I needed to get it out. I shall reflect on it later.

In a room


In a room covered in dust

Where evening’s light shines its warmth,

As in a heart covered in rust

That fears tears and their cold harmth,

Sits a family of old friends

– Remnants of a past era -,

Each of them portrait of bold trends

From lonely Azrael to ambitious Mira,

In a corner of the wooden chest

The cheap yet colorful drum lies silent

And atop the highest shelf sits a nest

Full of birds of passion, lovingly violent,

It once felt as though they observed

Their eyes judging and intentions devious,

But now he knows they are forever preserved

And shall not make him again Prometheus,

His life reads in the hundred books

To which he now rarely looks,

His hopes hidden away

In his peculiar moods and their secret sway,

Behind a false piano, opposite to the flowery drawing

Behind a thin and yet unmoving threefold door

The dreams of this child, the children of his dreams, have long been thawing

And if all is well they will thaw evermore;

The trophies, the medals, the cups and dozen charms

Are scattered in the wind of stillness that echoes,

He stands there, remembering the hundred thousand harms,

The secret of his thoughts is that only he knows.


“There is a house in my street, there is a room in my house…”



Inside a cold, frightening room

In the deeps of an old castle

This body lies on a table,

Having surrendered to its doom;

Above, in the wuthering heights

Where phantasms and howling ghosts,

Ghouls and phantoms in wretched hosts,

Dance this night to a hundred frights,

Storm and thunder befog the air

As maddened laughter fills the lair,

In days of yore rain kept apart

The loving mind and his workshop,

Soon now the steps will near and stop

And folly will kickstart my heart.


A poem based on the prompt “Kickstart my heart“.



Beware the silent calmness of the sand

Over the dead sea loom fire and ice

Under the myriad of gems slithers life

That which the eye cannot see is nowhere

Immaculate yet perverse west winds blow

Quoth the stars to the lost traveller

Undo what has been done free this lost heart

End suffering to embrace the renew


The prompt was “boutique”. Totally random. This is what I came up with. My mind works in strange ways sometimes.

The Classical Age


In a maze of twist and turn

Echo the cries of a beast;

Although a human heart beats,

In these dull, wicked eyes burn


The flames consuming its wings,

Blood thread trails limply behind

Swaying to the sirens’ songs,

Waiting on a virgin mind


To wish away all the wrongs,

But the labyrinth’s wall

Is strong and cold, dark and tall,


‘Tis made of a thousand strings

Played by the gods at a cost:

An eternal tempest-tossed.


Il y a d’une ode ici.

Rabbit in a Snowstorm


I sit there and wait to be inspired,

Reflecting on things I once aspired

To, things of my childhood, of years past,

And of things yet to come, at long last.

Upon the walls of white of my cell

I see great sceneries and portraits,

Fevered visions of those I shall fell

And secret glimpses to my dark traits.

I can feel her there, right by my side,

The spicy perfume floats in the room,

I can feel her stare over me loom

Recalling the time when I last cried;

Knowing not why now I remember,

I let this whirlwind fan my ember.


He dares the evil deeds.



















A strange concept of a poem made of single word verses that are given meaning by simple punctuation.

Also: 1000th post \o/

When the air is cold


When the air is cold

And my hands are pale

I can see my scars,

Memories of small battles

Fought and won over the years,

In the end they disappear

When the sun warms my skin

But I know they are still there

And for as long as I keep

This souvenir of flesh and bone

I feel I can never truly fail;

The road is bumpy and slippery,

Sometimes I even lose sight of the trail,

But the river is never far

And I thirst for running water.


Nothing to add this time, it’s all there.