Invictus

Invictus is the Latin word for unconquered. It is also the name of a poem written in 1875 and published in 1888 by William Ernest Henley. I have constantly found myself coming back to this poem for inspiration, and it has brought me light during my darkest hour.

 

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

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Home

A certain corner,
old house
red treading.
Lush and green,
moist ancient air.
Signboards, notices, mailboxes
medieval furniture
Oriental central,
the creaky staircase
leads you to room seven.
Questionable artifacts,
a hurricane of thoughts, emotions, desires.
A prison for lost souls?
There IS life here I reckon.
Dawn, in all its mighty glory,
rays of light through
unsure windows.
Travelling dust, entropy.
“I have seen decades.”
Chocolate, everywhere
but the walls.
Workstation,
white board,
esoteric post-its,
cancer stick graves,
papers,
pencils,
volumes of books,
obscure subjects,
night light,
funky dresser,
the aftermath of hurried bathing rituals,
strange shapes,
clothes,
materials,
shoes,
overdue laundry – everywhere,
pizza boxes – one score,
music – piano,
strung together –
one identity.
Solitude.
Home.

No regrets

No regrets
 
I walked
through the
bowers of time,
and our summer together
ended.
Swiftly.
The Viziers of good faith
beheaded an otherwise
calm tempest,
with blades of friendship.
Passion,
Heartbreak.
Would you die for me?
(Didn’t think so)
I’m dead.
Walhalla,
 
 
No regrets.
 

Renegade

Did you purchase
fate
from the bogeyman?
Mountains and valleys,
pineries of desire.
Shock.
We plead guilty
of reason, maybe treason.
Streets lined with crystals.
Time freezes
for
the populace.
Breathe in, call out
conjoin, fall out.
Renegade.
 
 

Displaced

This place is a
deep blue octagon.
Strange shapes embody
it’s angular crevices.
I raise my head,
twilight.
Sun raping the moon.
I dream of beanstalks and
a certain trave(r)sty.
Money fuels
this palace of azure.
Displaced….
maybe.

The gala

I found it in
the book of questions,
last page.
Did you live it?
(Unsure)
The future was yesterday,
Purple.
Seams of laughter,
bind my mind.
I want out!
It says not yet.
Do you have it in you?
(Nod)
I pry,
unfriendly silhouettes.
Gypsies, Vixens. Stones.
Dragons and bones
Herbs of freedom.
Harps & organs,
Pixy laden orchestras
Sonnets.
The gala
has already begun.
I’am here.

Humor

The mirror is
an ancient machine
 
 
Pain, pleasure
sorrow, mirth.
 
 
Lose yourself in
this urban Harem.
 
 
Screeching Nightangles,
bellowing their song.
 
 
What was that?
Subliminal humor
 
 
I don’t know you,
vile temptress..