Caught within the storm;
A maelstrom of fire and ash
yet merely known as ‘home’.
Wrapped in sure arms
that hold a mischievous grin,
Protector and herder of the lost,
God of something so pure as Chaos.
If lines in the sand must be drawn,
I stand beside who is both Ice and Fire,
Darkness and Light, Life and Death.
I will turn my back upon those
who hold my blood,
For the people I have chosen will always
be stronger than those forced upon.
“Blood is thicker than water”, they say,
Which is true, and it is also so
much more satisfying to spill.
I hold no ill will to you, you know
who you are; O’ Harbingers of Battle,
But if you call to rally arms,
I yet remain in the ranks of the Shadows.
I have always believed The End to be
a cycle, perhaps metaphorical;
Yet you have called to me,
Told me to abandon who stands at my side
when you yet refused.
My loyalty is stained in my own blood,
I will not hesitate to stain it in yours as well.
Fate be with you, O’ Bringers of Pain,
For Ragnarök is a cycle; a wheel
to spin again and again.
But eventually a spoke breaks
and the wheel crumbles;
So be careful where you stand,
For my line is drawn and my side is chosen
And I will not leave my family,
Blood-bound or for naught.
I was seven when I first heard the voices;
Seven and excited, seven and young.
I called them my friends,
Gave name to the phantoms,
Gave home to wraiths,
Seven and no longer alone
with my very own shadows and a
gift to see the dead.
I was eight when I realized
they could not be seen,
Not by anyone but me.
I was eight when a shadow gave me his smile
and told me to not be afraid.
I was eight when a shadow showed me his scars
and told me his fears, how he would
protect me when I could not protect myself.
I was eleven when I realized
that I was not 'special';
That I had no gifts.
I was eleven when I realized my phantoms
did not exist, not truly.
I was eleven when I realized I was mad
and my shadows were no more than cracked
mirrors, haunting and revealing my soul.
I was fifteen, fifteen and broken,
When white smiles became red
and the shadows I had called 'friends'
left bodies in their wake.
I was fifteen when I saw a young man hung
and a woman sliced open;
My shadow phantoms with red hands
and taunting voices.
I was sixteen when officially diagnosed,
All in one word: 'schizophrenia'.
It should have been calming,
To have a name to match to the shadows,
A reasoning behind the blood,
The answer to the longing to death.
It should have been calming
but by that time, I too saw red
and my hands were just as warm
as my phantoms.
I am seventeen, seventeen and scrambling
for reasons on why and attempts to stay sane.
I am seventeen and drugged, but my
shadows remain and they still yet whisper.
I am seventeen and I wish I could tell you
this is a work of fiction,
But even now my shadows watch,
and my shadows smile.
My greatest fear?
That when I die, I will not be dead.
That there will be some form of afterlife.
What soothes me most is the thought of nothing, the idea that death comes and that’s it.
That everything stops, the light leaves, a body becomes nothing more than an object.
My fear is most people’s hope, and vice versa.
How unorthodox of me, hm?
I want to die and be dead; no thoughts, no feelings, no heaven nor hell— I crave the nothing and fear the possibility of continuity.
I wanted to have something witty,
Something profound to say.
But at the end of the day,
All I feel is disappointment and depression.
I wanted to have a call to arms,
Something to inspire and educate people.
But if there's one thing I've learned from living?
That's practically a fruitless effort.
We call ourselves the smartest species
and yet here we are,
In a race to see who can kill ourselves the fastest.
The Consorts of Lies
There are those who exist within shadow,
Wearing the skins of wraiths while dealing in whispered oaths.
They trade screams for silence, pain for emptiness,
They take the light and leave only dark.
It is them who hold countless false promises,
Corrupt dealings and sinful desires pile alongside confessionals,
It makes no difference who comes to them;
Continuously, they consume trembling guilt as if it were brandy.
It is them, these creators of faulty bargains,
That you come to with your sacred words.
Alters, sacrifices, incantations, and mindless begging,
You will stop at nothing to reunite with your lost.
The rain does not deter you,
Not even as its acid hooks into your skin.
The red throats surrounding do not scare you off,
Not even as you wade through their remains.
No, you have come to make a deal,
Foolish of you, really.
For you have entered the realm of shadows,
Home to phantoms.
You are dealing with the consorts of lies;
And you will not leave alive.
Until the End
I stand alone on the edge of all,
Beneath the sea and before the fall,
Silenced to hear the sirens call--
Abandoned again in the shadows drawl.
Listen in sorrow to the sparrow’s song,
The grief of a mother always feel so wrong.
I ask again; what is the point of it all?
For I to fight, for you to fight, for the world to fall?
Dance with me upon the chasm,
Teetering on the edge with each spasm;
Lie in askance for my mercy upon you
But I ask, in the end, what else is there to do?
I’ve cut the ties and burned the bridges,
I’ve spilled the ink and the sung the phrases,
I’ve paid the tolls and broke the minds;
And here I am, with the stage set and the stars aligned,
Ready to take the fall.
Embarking into the Unknown
Faces of those who are lost stare ahead, each with their own tale and own terrors;
Stories of the past, present, and future; held within tears on silk cheeks.
Quiet determination fills sullen hearts, fear laces through veins—
Will asylum be given as promised? Or are these lives another batch to be caged?
Scores of people stand here, taking the hands of their neighbours while trying to ignore the blood aside.
A mother, a child, a veteran, a victim, a politician, a felon, a worker—
Does any of that matter?
Dow we all not plead equality and second chances, even for the damned?
Are we not all human, regardless of origin, race, or experiences?
Do we all not bleed when shot, cry when lost, die when hung?
See this woman here? Well into her age with two children trailing close behind?
She had lived in abuse, been raped and beat; she is disallowed to even speak.
She clings to her religion, as it is her only salvation,
Yet you judge her for the hijab she wears to protect her own self?
You judge the ceremonial robes she must wear, is beat if she does not?
You dare take outward appearance as gospel?
Or, do you see this child? Painfully skinny and short from malnutrition?
He works, everyday, until he drops dead of exhaustion and is abandoned in the factory.
Why? It’s to send money back home to his family, all dying of cholera.
His sister, only eight, is already dead, but he knows not.
His family is too weak to make the journey to freedom, or they are simply too scared of succeeding— to finally make it to the border to be killed at the gates?
So many people making the journey to the unknown;
Wondering if they will make it to a safe haven or die along the way,
Wondering if they actually manage, will they be sent back to die?
Will they be kept in cages like animals, separated from those they love?
But still, they come, embarking into the unknown that has been lined with red;
Some want a better life, for some it is either this or death, for some there is no choice.
And for most? The unknown future is better than the bloodied past.
Lost in a world of strife and squalor
and yet you dare to ask what I desire?
Here we are, trapped somewhere between pity and apathy—
How stark a contrast to have.
What do I long for? I’m not so sure I know anymore.
Something grand, yes; some fabricated belief that will never come.
Open arms, a loving smile— Sympathy without false sincerity.