The autumn dies on me
with red claws tearing way to forget
the chilly winds blow wildly
the queen of storms has said her name
crawling from the south bathed in a red sun
From the vast sky at the north
the widow comes, with skirts fluttering
the mistress of the faith
putting a wicked smile on her thorned face
The autumn dies in a hurry
blowing with air like a Zephyrus in grace
bringing the chill to the bones which lay beneath
the shut shack of heart
flowing in rotten veins
the blood freezes and stops
the autumn leaves the colosseum
The maiden of chill approaches
her veil thick and hallowed
the eyes that see nothing
kiss me, lady on nothingness
Days pass slowly. In the fog of everyday’s life, my own world spins, orbiting around the incoherent ideas and sparks of creativity. Sometimes I wonder where I lost so much time, a whole year, if not more. I am rebuilding it; stars over my head and in the heart – silver splinter for a werewolf-self.
I am not completely well. But not as bad as to howl.
Howling means that the wound is still there. It’s more like a scar.
In the headphones Her Ghost in the Fog. Gothic mood passed, but I sense it will return in a blink of a light side of the moon.