• 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.

  • 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.

  • poems

    The Doll

    beautiful child, when you lost your blinding innocence?
    the doll speaks about freedom, the lips touch the pool
    the tiny face in the grave veil, the eyes looking at the dirty world
    when was the last time when you heard the piano?

    the purity spoiled, the woman in the body of a child
    screams from the cage, buried deep in the ground
    her hands kick the dirt, the mouth fanged
    her father, oblivious?

    give her the gown, give her a dagger
    as she sinks the poison into the veins
    with a twisted smile
    sun, burn me, as I confess my sins

    (my tribute to Claudia from Vampire Chronicles)

  • thoughts


    Calm comes with understanding. Understanding comes with the opening of the mind.

    The silence of the endless wasteland, where the human foot has never stood before.

    The silence of a forgotten temple buried by time. The silence of ancient events and memories that disappeared with the wind.

    The rustle of material right next to me. The silence when I turn my head to enjoy you. Your body is so close…

    The clock is ticking slowly, measuring irrelevant time. My eyes glitter with a strange glow in the grey darkness, separating themselves from the surrounding me, fading, night.

    Silence. How wonderful to achieve peace. Absolute peace. Our own world in which we live silently, breathing in the same air. Two people, dancing in the shadows.

  • thoughts

    Hell on Earth

    The fire descending from the sky, the scorched mind, begging for the ethereal water. All thoughts closed in a small burning casket, where no air seems to be allowed. The deserted brain yells for relief, the body shivers under gusts of heat.

    I loathe hot weather. Give me a cold beer, please. Otherwise, I will change into a dry scarecrow. I miss the winter, the beautiful snowy landscape of forest behind my window. Now even trees beg for a solace.

    How many months? Only a few. I count the days until the first freezing pattern painted by frost on my pane…