Out of the body, only being-
formless and suspended.
A feeling, as of approaching death,
enveloped me as I gazed upon 
strange vistas. There rose 
a swirling monolith 
graven in nebulous hues. 
Clasped at its heart 
lay horns of twinkling light,
the mother of wolves, 
circlet of night. 
I am becoming…
I am being…


The Approach Of Horns demo

Out of the body, only being-
formless and suspended.
A feeling, as of approaching death,
enveloped me as I gazed upon 
strange vistas. There rose 
a swirling monolith 
graven in nebulous hues. 
Clasped at its heart 
lay horns of twinkling light,
the mother of wolves, 
circlet of night. 
I am becoming…
I am being…


Approach Of Horns

What is dead illuminates
and births a bowl of ashen gems.
Dreaming… the soul rises 
in wisps of smoke.

A faraway voice cried, 
I am lost without you.
An echo was all I had, 
a memory of trees and clear water.
I am lost without you.

There I lay in a shroud of mist,
a forgotten elder in solitude:
hid from the sun by the shadows of shrines,
breathing the scents of sepulchral blooms.

They feed on long-buried flesh,
and I feel I am one of them.
Silent, rotting.

There in the water… I saw the moon… 
her outline was black.
Under her gaze, resplendent-
I watched as god fell.
His flesh became leaves of seasons long-gone.
I rejoiced as I peered
into the ash of divinity…


Chapters In Solitude

It was in death 
I found meaning and beauty:
  
pillared deities draped
in a mantle of cracked skin,
russet robes coiled at their feet, 
crooked fingers reaching 
towards a pale heaven
in lament-	
to winter-laden clouds,

hoping to wring
from their mercy

one last drop of autumn,
laden with rain and colour.

It slowly seeped o’er all,
and framed those headless angels
in fire.

The groaning of tongue-less mouths 
faintly heard,
a rasp, a hiss:
 
echoes of parched throats
whose blood litters the ground
in sweetly foetid clots.

Few things in this sphere
are as fragrant 
as their dying breath. 

Haloed by the tempest, 
their shadows tracing gloom- 
I saw that they feared judgment, 
and in that fear 
found solace. 


Shrines To Decadent Splendour

“Thus will I die myself…and earth will I again become, to have rest in her that bore me.”- Nietzsche

I see the sun,
a burning mask of despair.

Clouds scrape through an ashen sky,
a besotted funeral procession
seeking lost horizons.

I drown myself in smoke,
watching my own mask 
in a mirror of torpid waters.

Whispers and bells
bespeak dreams of misery. 

I would hang on in
quiet desperation, if 
it meant one more day. 

Dreams of you are 
buried pale.

I despair the withered shadows
of memory.
I await the cold morning. 


Whispered Amen

Scenery was inspired by H.P. Lovecraft's short story, "What the Moon Brings".

Painting the hideous 
on day's beloved scenes, 
lacerating with horrid light
the skins of shallow waters. 

Dead flowers
drink 
deep of the shimmering wounds.

The willow beckons,
weeping a Gorgon hiss
to stone-carved lovers
poised grotesque in the mist.

Dead faces sigh, dreaming.

What lore lies writ
by gnawing worms
in rotting flesh?
What secrets of sepulchral summer
hide in the shadowed bowers
beneath her grin of pale fire?

I take the sea as my shrine
and wander the garden no more.

Dreichmere