there is a shadow at the edge of my mind, right here,
between the pale skin of morning hours and
my pulsing temples -
sometimes it grows tentacles
of lies and screams - oh, father,
take this faceless ghost away from me,
show me that mercy is not
just an empty promise
and grace a blind pegasus.
oh, father, switch off this day for me,
delete it from the calendar of struggle,
lift me up there into your
blank whiteness,
into the frozen light!
erase this world,
start all over again
with a whisper over black waters…
above the mountain of ashes
the rose will rise triumphant, moon-like;
the silence of the meek will pierce the walls of fortresses,
star-shaped hands
will reach for the silver butterflies;
waves after waves of liquid light
will peel from the bodies of dead heroes
and become rivers of gold;
obsessive thoughts in black bouquets
and haunting images of cruelty
will fade into the fragrant evenings…
beware of those who claim
to hold the keys to the iron gates -
there are no answers yet,
just unformed questions
- blind, shape-shifting strings of words
pretending to grow wings and
crumbling in the burning sand soon after…
monsieur Ducasse, master of deceit,
decay, devastation,
of derelict domes of distress
and damaged souls in damp dungeons;
throw your dice on this path of dust,
choose our destiny,
declare the beginning, deny the purpose,
dance in your grey robe of ashes,
in circles of darkness and pain.
beat the drums to the rhythm of destruction,
drown the world in noise
and show us the final act
in the dim hours of dawn:
all dust. no path.