Again this chilly path, what sinister forces have driven me to it? I cast into my thoughts a frozen glance. Hidden behind their shadows are the night's spirits, taking care that these endlessly footsteps tread the spaces from where hang the underground suns. On and on I'm walking, without the hope to get tire or uneasy, for my footsteps don't have a goal. Don't look to the sides! The gloomy weaving of trees that just a moment ago shrouded the forest... it's no there anymore. No! It's the emptiness what stare at me from out there. Its domains start from each one of my flanks. The piece of land occupied by my body right now, it's its only frontier.
No, don't look! I know that it's more than the echo of my voice —it's that of my body too, and alas¡ It stand for my fears. I want to turn around, but I can't. I must to defeat this curiosity, very much to the heart of those who are dying, and long before the dead, want to know what kind of deity forged their coffin. I feel the rage of the loneliness inside me, because there are intruders, they're quiet —showing their silhouettes in the emptiness.
Posted in :
Bottomless Tombs,
Dark Fantasy,
Dark Poetry,
Odilius Vlak,
Prose Poem
|
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!
Posted in :
Bottomless Tombs,
Dark Fantasy,
Dark Poetry,
Odilius Vlak,
Prose Poem
|
Watch the sound of your fury, smell the color of your frustration, within this subtle darkness forged by your thoughts. Buried in yourself, you keep on moving forward through this swamp of rotten light; scourging your palate, with the faded gleams that cast out the sacred mud. Your steps still hold fast to the confusion and the trembling, but move forward, for I'm waiting for you in the very core of this swamp; wetted with the shining of the eyes of all those left out of the destiny's testament. Come with me, the heritage that was denied to you, rest in my mournful ark.
My blade is made out of blood and sperm, and can make a masterpiece of the straw in your eye. The gnats shriek the echoes of your memories, carved in the wax that gets old in pilgrimage toward the death's iron. I know they're melt by black bees in the souls of all those you met. If you come to me, you'll see that I can be confidant of your visions about the end.
I can see you possess painful memories. That's the reason of the vehement darkness. The gnats aren't enough for the memories you've sacrificed before the shrime of your hatred. Your hands aren't enough to get through the deafening darkness, filled with foul-smelling screams. Come to me, so that your holocaust will have the rare flavor of a narcotic honey. You'll be amazed to see coming back your soul mutilated, but triumphant, over the ragged deities.
Posted in :
Bottomless Tombs,
Dark Poetry,
Odilius Vlak,
Paganism,
Prose Poem
|
Only to them was given the gift to plow the flesh that spread out all over the earth, with the implacable iron of their thoughts... and yawn before the ephemeral harvest of their rotten desires.
Gloomy workmen of the most sinister prophecies, those that sow hunger in the imagination to know what will bloom beyond the end, and the dark decision to journey toward that end.
Some of them, are patient prisoners of the paradise's light; projected through the fragile consciences in spiral of blood, held by pillars of dying flesh. Skillful and quiet, they avoid the enervated souls of the light: shallow essences, that get satisfied with any paradise; and fear any hell. Determined, they are not afraid to drain their inner cup, and lost themselves in the rapture of their being.
Posted in :
Apostles,
Bottomless Tombs,
Dark Poetry,
Gospels,
Odilius Vlak,
Prose Poem
|
