• poems

    Buttons and Cotton

    the falling walls hide my heart
    deep in the ground, under the bed of thorned flowers
    finding it equals death
    as the poison injects into your veins

    the walls fell
    and buried my body underneath
    the lonely bird sings over the brick grave
    his button cotton eyes lurk beneath

    buttons and cotton
    the bird is made of, he
    guards my tombstone made of walls

  • poems

    Glow and Moss

    the light stone forest, swirling in my veiled mind
    mirage against my common sense
    the rocks shine with an unearthly gleam
    as I step into the kingdom of moss

    the root and the stone
    branches; wood in my blind eyes
    my blood gives life
    to the age of glowing wonder

    the crackled heart torn in half
    fruit of darkness lost to the past

  • thoughts


    The fear is crimson, like a flame. It’s my private demon, dressed in gauze and silk. The royal upbringing I gave it, shines like a black star. Where I go, it slowly creeps after me, leaving dusk and twilight on the path I passed. It loves me. And I love it too, it’s like a ghost haunting me for so long, that I befriended it and made my second skin, tougher somehow, darker.

    I am dark inside, even if nobody sees it. I hope that no one sees it. I am happy I am made, both of outer light and inner darkness. Isn’t that what makes us whole?

  • thoughts

    The Lost Souls

    My mood now?

    The lone ghost among the graveyards, standing silently between tombstones, reaching the hands to the unwilling groom. Her wide black dresses float in the air and her blank face shows no emotions. The wandering soul in the early September glory.

    Mortaur sounds so good when the sun is bleak and the wind cleans the field from the freshly fallen leaves.

    Nostalgic feelings of the day, checked. Strong black coffee, is what I really need. Or cappuccino. Nothing as good as the taste of almonds.

  • thoughts

    Gothic Mood

    The warm, soothing rays of the autumn sun touch my hands as I stretch them into the air. I sit in my own asylum, the solace for the hurt soul – a tattered bench in the corner of the park. I always come here, when I am sad, when I think life is unbearable and it’s no place for me on this earth.

    Here, I used to spend another life. It seems so long ago and unreachable. Like it was cut from me with a surgical knife. I was happier, more lively, YOUNGER then. I didn’t know many things and made a lot of mistakes, but I carried them with head high and hope.

    When I sit on this bench now, my bench, from long ago, I feel only nostalgia. The filtered afternoon sun kissing my skin through the canopy of leaves makes me remember. And my soul silently weeps, even if obviously, it has no real reason to do so.

    Listening to A Gothic Romance (Red Roses For The Devil’s Whore) by Cradle of Filth. Somehow, strangely, fits my current mood. I feel like I come back to my oh so gothic roots.