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.