Spirits! Why you like to take refuge within the sugary fetus thrown to the Leviathan from this fabulous black ink sea's shores? Don't get in the domains of those cemeteries. There, the spectres keep a jealous guard over the corpses in which in former ages the fire made to them the offering of passions. Beside, the black out that fell over their memories, needs bodies that times after times vomit the dust from which they are made. They are in a dire situation. The spaces revealed by the sun in the daydreams of the legendary forest—aren't cradle for newborns.
It's useless a tender hope for your three-dimensional's dreams, moreover, isn't blood that runs through those images piled in the mirror's subconscious. What do you feel now that you are next to my coffin while at the same time the emotions given off by the sorrowful wolf's howls, tear you apart? Perhaps you want to take a nap on its melody; with the hope that, once awake, got your physical bodies back. Which ones they might be? What they do? Are they sleepwalkers wandering through streets on which their footsteps get mix with the dogs'? Streets that don't take the trouble to make them stumble. Maybe, they've built up a quicksilver bridge as a way to cross where they could be seen. Surely, those bodies are happy without spirits that make them uneasy.
Spirits! You like to plunge in the asphalt's vapors. But it's useless, because your existences don't take part in any breath of life. The flesh is too busy leading its herd of worms toward the stockade. Spirits! What came over your lives that suddenly made the Limbo the best option. Of course, in there the air is purer. No wonder you fell asleep when arrived to its realm. You enjoyed the oblivion's shelter, but couldn't endure so much harmony and started to miss the hell of your bodies. But they don't remember you, and they won't. They've forgotten you because they too, are in their own limbo... They're the madmen's bodies!

Useless have been my efforts to find my image's reflections; they're buried in these ancient pupils that in former times cast their grim looks upon me, hiding the light from the souls that, with heavy hearts, gave up their stars.

  Everything in this park is made out of ivory, everything is lifeless. From the trees only the sap is flowing through the flowers' cracked petals —like a sneeze of dark sparks— searching for the spring that once more, brought it alive. But it's a pity that the spring itself is carved in ivory, like every being in this park.

  They're on the benches, at the foot of the trees —static along the endless paths. In the gardens and beside the fountains there are men and women indifferent to each other, just like the columns of an ancient temple devoted to gods forgotten by their own minds. Only their pupils show to be alive, but only darkness is reflected from them.

About Me

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Odilius Vlak, is the pseudonym of a guy whose real name is Juan Julio Ovando Pujols. He was born and still lives in Dominican Republic. The pen name turned out to be his spiritual name, because it was chosen by his soul, and not by two pieces of rotten flesh, namely, his parents. As a writer he likes to explore the dark aspect of the imagination and place the result in the light's showcase with a fantastic attire. So far, his main way of expression is the prose poem. Some may be very lyric; others, very narrative. But, all of them being a kind of philosophic declaration of why the Dark Fantasy should be loved. He has two unpublished books, of which several samples will be show in this virtual temple: Plexus Lunaris and Bottonless Tombs. Currently he's writing the first story of the book "Chronicles of Tandrel". It will be a universe builded in the same way that "Zothique the Last Continent", by Clark Ashton Smith; that is, showing the whole feature of it, through a series of tales. He also run a Blog in spanish devoted in part to the sacred figure of Clark Ashton smith: the «High Priest» of the Dark Fantasy.
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