“I Am”

This is nothing more than an elaborate riddle. I have designed it so that there is just one correct answer. One may disagree – if one would be so inherently inclined towards being utterly WRONG. One would, then, be kindly reminded that this is MY domain and these are MY rules. One is so silly. I am so sorry for one.


“I Am”

I am the madness festering inside my own disease;
I am the voices pestering; desire unappeased;

I am the presence shadowing where nothing still remains;
I am the laughter harrowing; the ash inside my veins;

I am the famished countless voids that still remain unwhole;
I am the gambled trust destroyed; the actor without role;

I am the sacred suffering of a promise broken;
I am the fearful offering to deities long unspoken;

I am the thirstful cancerous corner of my eye;
I am the echoed avarice of a fading “What am I?“.



This is just something I came up with out of necessity. Not my finest work, that much is certain.

Thank you.


Reeling wrongly ‘bove the right,
Fighting fathoms fearfully,
I’ve learned to love lingering light,
Clasping, claiming, clamouring.

Shadows shuddered shamefully
At the terror threatening,
Waiting, watching woefully,
Made macabre, maddening.

Now for naught naysayers narrow
Speak the ceaseless senseless song –
Wreathing worms that wail and wallow,
Reeling rightly ‘neath the wrong.

Beckoning blissful abatement
Hailing high from mental wealth,
Sinfully, it states the statement:
To each their own… and I to myself.

“That Is What She Is”

Slightly cryptic, but I believe it may speak to whomever cares to listen. This is yet another attempt to express the way I feel without giving out too many hints.


“That Is What She Is”

Like gleaming velvet royalty
Bathing in a thousand eyes
That hunger for the loyalty
She reluctantly provides.

That is what she is to them –
The starving snakes, slobbering fiends –
She feeds them every now and then
With a hint of the obscene.

That is what she is to her –
This creature, this zenith divine –
Speaking summer, breathing winter,
Unknown to the weak and blind.

Yet much more than song and sin
And no mere goddess is she;
The demonesse behind my grin –
That is what she is to me.

“Local Warming (A Minor Tragedy)”

A rather strange take on what I’ve been feeling lately, filtered through the actions of a single day. I’m in a fairly interesting place – no matter how deeply and often I choose to exaggerate the current state of affairs regarding my… interests.


“Local Warming (A Minor Tragedy)”

I greet each hazy early morn’,
As I stand my righteous ground,
Yet I seethe out of my form
Every time she comes around.

Growling, frowning as I might,
Treading over vacant skulls,
I can’t allow myself to fight
This fever uncontrolable.

And once I lose myself among
Mundane faces, mortal toils,
Humming her sweet silent song,
She makes my coursing venom boil.

Shaking, I’ve learnt to make do
(In fact, I cannot stand at all);
And fright’ningly, I’m starting to
Use words like… “adorable” –

This is, frankly, horrible!


“Secluded Surge”

This is the product of my own anger and frustration. It is the manifestation of that harrowing experience where one suffers at the action of an oblivious other; where one cannot voice any displease towards such a situation for fear of breaking especially fragile social bonds.

You have been warned.

“Secluded Surge”

A world and all its sky-born wonder
Sets into the wild horizon,
Dipping ever-deeper under
Tendrils twisted dark arisen;

And all the breathing singing skies
Lose their shallow fleeting tune,
Yet the grasping deep denies
Even secret songs of doom.

All the screaming and the wailing,
Muffled under dripping shroud;
All the dreaming and the failing,
Powering the silence loud.

Thus, a world erradicated
Before even taking root,
Left breathless and suffocated
In a soundless flood uncouth.

Not unlike this dawning dark
Is the path that I have chosen;
And suffering a single spark,
I writhe and drown… in my own poison.


“Eye of the Storm”

I’ve been meaning to write lately, but my head’s been crowded with a few other projects I’m actively thinking about and trying to materialise. I wrote this because I felt like I’ve been neglecting my own thoughts in the past few weeks. So I took a break from responsibilities in order to vent over here for a while.

Do enjoy!

“Eye of the Storm”

Like a soothing summer breath,
I inhaled her searing smile,
Etching deep within my chest,
Through my darkening exile;

And the sacred crimson rivers
She allowed once more to flow;
The frailty of a faded shiver
Begged me to never let go.

Thus, the savage scarlet sea
Simmering under my shell
Phased out of a fantasy –
I stood strong… and then I fell.

Through my dormant fingertips,
Velvet seeped oneirically
And I began writing this,
So none could take her from me.

What I feel… she’ll never know…
And I know she’ll never feel
The warmth she utters in her glow
Through those piercing eyes unreal.

And I wish that she would see
Herself mirrored in my word;
And I wish she would see me…
In the way that I see her…

“Architect and Executioner”

I wrote this as a result of a very cathartic experience from last night. It’s so littered with coded language that most could barely call this coherent.

Enjoy! …or try to.

“Architect and Executioner”

‘Twas a boiling summer eve’,
No breeze to sway and to deceive
The faithless plains of the mundane,
The seething songs of the insane,
Paltry toils of small insects –
Waking dreams of architects.

In the corner of the room,
The bride stood silent in her tomb.
Though silent she may have been,
Her beauty did not go unseen;
In a daze did she reflect
The image of the Architect;
And took he forth his lover mute,
That suave and curvaceous lute,
To a place of sacred gazes,
Thirstful eyes and smiling faces,
Where she would be glorified,
Greeted as an honoured bride;
And choirs of cherubs and seraphs
Glowed like embers in a hearth;
Hearts beat closer, warmer, faster
To the web-spin of the Master.

‘Mongst the clamour of the halls
Crowded by the tow’ring walls,
One soul swelled forth with the tide
Following the sacred bride,
He rose above the hazy smoke;
And strange things he dared invoke:
He told tales of wolves and swines,
Lands of chaos, seas of wine;
And he spoke of loving home,
Of severed heads and cracking bone,
The haunting sixty cursed years,
He spoke of love, he spoke of fears.

The Architect did scoff and snicker
At the ramblings of the vicar:
“Art thee but a prisoner
Bathing in the listeners?
Art thee ‘nother Lucifer,
Or just Executioner?”

So the man before the storm
Shifted into liquid form;
And dark waters did reflect
The image of the Architect;
And without moving his lips,
As a strange verbal eclipse,
The image spoke familiar tune,
Drowning the entire room:
“Architect without a name,
Shouldn’t I ask you the same?”