I am a shadow,

Thus I cannot blink,

When studying the cold blindness,

Of this smooth, molten world. 

I am a shadow,

Sliding into Oblivion,

As formless as infinite,

And as helpless as one.

I am a shadow,

Paraphrasing mute words,

Raging amidst masses ,

In thread like ripples.

I am a shadow,

Curious and quite,

Like iron draped in rust,

Neath veil of silver light.

I am a shadow,

I reign on the line,

Nothing farther than thy far,

Nothing nearer than mine.

I am a shadow,

And I speak of night’s past,

As I sailed under starlight,

And people’s twin hearts.

I am a shadow,

Spurred on by flaw

With Equanimity my armor,

And ambiguity my law.

I am a shadow,

And I whisper through the ages,

Sifting stained pages of history,

Marking epoch and phases.


Breath, breath,

O portrait black,

With blind eyes do whisper,

Laugh now, whilst the paint is wet,

For once the lines are cold,

And the hand of reason stays,

Your smile shall freeze,

As you would cease, to exist, to evolve,

For on the threshold of perfection,

The mirror reflects no more,

But resigns in destitute,

Having been deemed futile.

Eye of the Masses

Look beyond,

But no farther than the walls which guards you,

For then the scene changes,

As all you would see shall voice,

Their own tales of tragedy,

Till those screams vaulting freedom dies down,

And the silent catacombs stir awake,

In ash and dust,

Raising ghosts that would scale the wall, this wall,

To take shelter by your hearth,

And of all those who shall heed your reminiscence.

If Illuminated the spectres, will stand,

Looking beyond,

At the flames lighting long horizons,

Towards a new path, towards a new world,

Yet unknown and unchanged,

Awaiting the distant dust of their march.

O Witness, who saw true,

O Descendant, who braved,

When you tousle the wordless shards,

Know that the mirror then would reflect neither the stillness of time,

Nor the ember notes of progress,

But would turn opaque, uncertain,

As is all that resides,

On the other side.

For it is by the brink of one’s eye,

Where the blindness begins.

The Rehearsal

For many a filthy centuries I sobbed beneath the moon, 

For many a happy festivals I saddled away in gloom, 

For longing days of endeavour I traveled in my yard, 

For countless nights of feinging flights I fell, and fell down hard.

The freedom of my Martyrdom, thus can be ever sung, 

When the swinging of those dead resounds the chapter hung, 

And the drizzle of Golden virtue drops upon thy land, 

While cursed faith of red blood stains my crystal sand. 

In the past of reinging dark I fumble on my way, 

In the realm of harping larks I mumble what I must say,

By the mud of cleansing sages I must wither down my curse, 

As the final act of men I did and did rehearse.