This piece simply describes that curious feeling of having a reason to wake up in the morning. Lately, my reason has developed a name; and a face; and an overall human shape.

Do enjoy and let me know what you think!


Naked in the morning light,
He stares blandly through the bricks
Choking innocence with sight
Snuffed under the marching ticks.

Naked in the morning light
With which silence has been wed,
He sits paralysed with fright
At the far edge of his bed.

Every day begins the same;
He has grown to hate to turn
Pages in books without name,
Pages he wishes to burn.

Naked in the morning light,
He sits just as evermore
On the altar of the night,
Behind large wide-open doors,

Wishing he could sit no more,
Cursing to the gleaming skies,
Naked as the world’s last whore,
Wishing he could close his eyes…

‘Nother dawn bares its long claws,
Piercing every brick and tile
And with seemingly no cause,
He awakens… with a smile.

Naked in the morning light –
This day cannot be the same –
On the pages of his mind,
Sribbled, he has found a name!

To the altar of the night
He turns his vindictive glower
And naked in the morning light,
He stands to meet each blessed hour.

“Dark Respite”

This is just something I’ve been mentally preparing to write for a few weeks. Wrote it as soon as I found the right words. Your feedback is highly appreciated!


“Dark Respite”

Long have I disdained the faces
Wreathing the walls of my brain,
Echoing from long-lost places,
Mocking my unholy name.

Cold the tremors of my touch
Have become over the years,
Cold to all pleasentries such
As uncertainty or fear.

Everyday I learn to smile,
Mentored by my memory;
Alas, eternity, defiled –
Cold eternal revery.

Neither muse, nor dark surprise
Takes root from under my hide.
The sun falls so stars may rise –
It’s not the first time that I’ve died.

I lament my empty throne,
…For my muse…my dark surprise…
For I’m no longer alone
When I close my bloodshot eyes.

“The Toymaker”

This idea came to me just as I was heading to sleep. It is not a mirroring of personal feelings, but rather, my perspective on the story of someone very close to me.

Let me know what you think!

“The Toymaker”

Eleven in the dismal night,
Maybe half an hour more –
There still shines a feeble light
In the old toymaker’s store;

And the windows of his home
Pour out the candle’s lament,
Crawling under dreary dome
Onto cold and dark cement.

Tinkering, he toils, this man
Behind doors thoroughly locked;
Tinkering, he boils, he plans
To the ticking of the clock.

He makes dolls, puppets and masks,
Never carving them their eyes;
And unto patrons who ask,
Selling stitched and fraying lies,

The tragedy of long goodbyes…

Candle wax drips on the floor,
Crumbling under shaking soles;
Windows glow dimly no more
In the silent dream made whole,

For no hands now hold the cross
Of puppets leaving the shelf.
The toymaker is at a loss –
Woe unto his fearful self!

Faces hung on melting walls
Spring deranged demonic grins;
Maddened by the gruesome calls,
He looks now unto his sins.

And the dolls his eyes now crave –
Woe unto his sightless self!
Be strong, my friends, and be brave –
The clock chimes for hour twelve.


Revisiting older concepts, albeit with a different coat of paint. I cannot reveal much, but feel free to decipher.



Elder to all I’ve etched into my wall,
Yet younger than they who were destined to fall;

In the depths of my hell, In the heart of my hall,
Disturbing my thoughts is a harrowing call.

What would I not give for a glimpse of her smile
Mirrored into my existence reviled,

To devour her pain and to make it my own,
To renounce the maddening silence of stone…

What would I not give to feel her embrace
Until the darkest defeat of my days,

To crumble the kingdom of cacophony;
I’d sacrifice all for my Persephone…

But she has no eyes for one such as I,
One who’d conceal the whole world in a sigh.

How can she hope to worship the sun
In lascivious temples of The Unseen One…

To no gods I bow, for I swear by my pride,
Yet why do I find myself kneeling aside?

Forged in the flames of the Pantheon’s clutch,
Yet I still melt at the thought of her touch?

What manner of reveries must I endure
To dare to confront with no shape and allure?

When not even I can remember my face,
…She hums to the ode which my own heart betrays…

“The Chase”

I’ve managed to push myself to rekindle something that has given me a lot of inspiration in the past, so I wrote this.

Note: I say “pushed myself”, because I’m to afraid to admit I have no control over this damn thing beating wildly inside my chest.

Send help.

“The Chase”

Never have I been the prey,
Nor a beast of pride am I;
Never have I been betrayed
By the gleam inside my eye;

Never have I felt the rush
Of inferno in my heart,
Boiling volumes into hush,
Lowering my stalwart guard;

Never have I met a face
I could not face as a whole,
Fever of a feline grace,
Catharsis in a single soul.

Never in my wildest dreams,
Gilding the forgotten grey,
Have I ever seen these things
As clearly as I did today.

…And I knew not what to say.

“Desert Dance”

This draws its main inspiration from a dream that had occurred to me several times. Each time the details were slightly different, so I had to stitch everything up from memory. The name “Sarahan” (often referred to as “Sarahan of the Deserts”) occurred on a few occasions in those dreams, usually referring to some form of malevolent vengeful titan-like being sent to bring about the world’s end at the behest of some very angry gods. Some very extensive and minute research (literally one single search on Google) has concluded that Sarahan is actually a village in India. The implications of this could be very interesting, but instead of following up on the background of the village, I’ve decided only to share what I have seen.


“Desert Dance”

Sharp winds does the sea provide,
Hopelessly seeking to aid
Barren landscapes left behind
By the gods that we have made.

Our nights are bright as day,
Scorching with a thousand suns,
Bleeding earth forlorn and flayed
By the howling unseen ones.

Sandstorms scalp the golden domes
In a war-born savage trance,
Covering the marble thrones –
A sadistic Desert Dance.

Feathers grace the searing sky,
Falling from the heavens red,
Gliding fearfully awry
‘Bove the laughing lion head.

Towering above the sands,
Tremoring with every step,
Four blades grasped in shaking hands
Which for aeons lied and slept.

Dust engulfs the sacred signs
Adorning the ancient walls –
Mockery in sinful rhymes
Which for aeons us enthralled.

I hear now the serpent song
Slithering inside the sand;
I see the temples we have wronged
Festering on rotten land.

The desert dance cuts ever-deeper
At the eyes of this mere pawn;
I behold the Harbinger –
Sarahan – the breaking dawn;

…Spelling doom with every yawn.

“The Fall of Mankind”

I had always wanted to have a go at writing in limerick format. With some minor exceptions, I believe I have hit the figurative nail on the figurative head on a technical level. On a thematic scale, this takes inspiration from the world’s most famous book, albeit smothered in a great deal of interpretation.

Have a read and let me know what you think!

“The Fall of Mankind”

Who could have foreseen such a ruse?
Even saints rabble down and accuse.
Certainly not
The slobbering lot,
Nor the sorrowful demons obtuse.

I was slithering my own affairs
And skulking around everywhere,
Until that I met
The aphonic duet
And they didn’t know I was there.

Had he a name, so did she,
But then who doesn’t, honestly?
I only recall
The tale of the fall,
The falling that brought them to me.

One evening I saw her depart,
Running away, breathing hard,
Through to the edge
Of the heavenly hedge,
With only despair in her heart.

She had tasted my poison before
And she’d felt of my fangs to the core,
She’s seen the grin
Of a devilish sin,
Yet she never dared open the door.

I burried my scales in the sand,
As I heard the footsteps of a man.
He could not see
Through the shadows and trees,
So I guided his hungering hand.

Just as he neared her retreat,
Thought I’d save myself a little treat,
So I coiled like shackles
Around his ankles
And he toppled forth in defeat.

Scarlet was his dim-wit face
And so was the prize of his chase,
They burned so bright
The forest caught light
And the dirt collapsed without trace.

“I’m falling!” is all that I’ve heard,
As he tightly held onto her.
For her he fell
In love and in Hell;
They both fell for each other.

A thundering voice did demand
That the offspring I’d swiftly unhand,
Yet that was for naught,
As they paid it no thought,
For only each other they had.

To myself I had proven my worth,
Perverting the world before birth;
With only a jest
I had shepherd the best
Thing that could happen on earth.