• poems

    Autumnal Bride

    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

  • thoughts

    Silver Splinter

    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.