I wanted to include aspects of my life that include creative writing. From the main home page, you can access The Channellings of Lilith and Archangel Michael. From here, you can read poems from my personal poetry collection.
Ethereal entities. An afterthought in sky does near. To catch such with a tightened rope would leash them down like a dog by throat.
What am i to restrain such whisps, which need no human hand to tempt?
Grey in anger, volcano black, then in weather they do crack. Even rainbows make their way, nothing to hide their spectral ray.
Shadows project within cloud fumes. Illusions to grasp, to merge, to slip through. Such is Ocean. Stream, River, Water, Vapour, and Ice. Sorrow and memory.
Weightless, they float. All forms of clouds to take. Yet empty they are, part of sky. Collected tears of years gone by.
Can you hear the sharpening of the axe? The split hairs, the head to roll. But the axe is not for you, my friend.
The neck to follow the funeral march. The irons around clasped wrists tighten their hold.
The chains clink, and the rusted key in the lock does not turn. Yet to the gallows we go, where the accusers accost and grow.
Malleus Maleficarum, their path, their way, their scourge. To those lofty heights, one shall find their plight.
A fine day for an execution, the crowds solid in their conviction. United in their righteousness, their desperation grows.
Begging for restitution, their crusades were well-renowned. They wave their flags to declare, that they were bestowed on by a divine heir.
The scapegoat to fulfil their fetishes and fears. For the devil has been frolicking with the obscene.
Many virgins, they say, are lost inside a fairy ring. The jeering crowd cries and steams.
Cloven hoof and sharp fang, witch’s mark, and black mass. Book of Shadows, demon spawn.
Holy water, they sign their cross. Repent to God or remain lost. Curse that woman, that fragile sinner, fraternising with such creatures. Led to the gallows on this day.
When the penchant of others decides the price you shall pay.
Wind this clock, infernal thing, as if meant for deaf ears. Why such noise as if it were owed, the time you kept, but no you stole.
You mock with an oppressive click, the dials whirl, and the ticking stirs.
Yet dear clock, born of a world that does not stop.
For timelessness, i have no name, yet you, thief, you mar this frame. The frames of all i have created here, pinned within them meanings dear.
Memories fading like some old frock. I have repaired the holes that time forgets. You choose to steal, work, rest, play, and meals.
This intrepid wheel of strife i claim. You chip away like some knave. Tempus fugit, prepare my grave. Mortis, Sanguis, here lies times lament. Farewell, anon, i am well spent.
Every vision deserves a pen. And the pen stretched fingertips to become all things.
The pen need not be visible, as I am that. Full of ink as my blood.
For I am an endless well seeping, I do not dry. For the graininess of existence
scorches my skin.
The cool of my words soothes a bitter and beautiful life that i cannot tame. The touch of images dissolved in heart and soul.
Then wrought with power to paper, or a screen, an empty carcass, delivered to that vision. Distilled, we are not. Non-clarified Is our depth. To live with wonder and without regret.
