Tell me, O’ where lie the dead?
Ah, they, they are everywhere.
Carried on wind, here and there,
Where’er their restless souls are led.
Tell me, O’ where lie the dead?
They sleep in the trees.
Float on moonlit seas.
The universe is their immortal bed,
Slumbering: memories in head,
Batting live-skin with eyelashes of dread.
K. Aldaya, 9/28/05
Picture: Artist Unknown; http://cdn.playbuzz.com/cdn/3939b4e1-f8dc-48db-a39c-501275b0f8d0/054e1831-5918-4b67-be14-d33e3f9f55e0.jpg
I saw its hand reach out to me.
In the dark it nightly watched,
Stalking my soul as a decree.
No choice: it had to have me.
Closer and closer it notched.
Its’ ghastly hand found once,
A place upon my shoulder cold.
Why is this only what it hunts?
My eyes cared only of confronts,
So they turned back to behold.
O’ what a hideous game to play,
There I saw nothing but black,
And a dim-hand far away.
O’ to offer…then steal away,
And accentuate the lack.
I painfully motioned hand outward,
To grant forth what I thought it sought.
How could I know this was absurd?
To know what this could have spurred?
It joined my hand not.
I stumbled to move in near.
Bones broke and blood teared down,
But no longer did I fear!
Then it…o yes…did disappear,
And I was left to drown.
Death is a demons’ jester-pawn.
Walking our eyes upon its’ path.
All made and held swiftly gone,
In pursuit of this path it’s on.
To fall, then arise, a living blood-bath.
And death: vast years away,
Laughs the empty hours away.
K. Aldaya, 8/14/05
Picture: “Scary Shadow” by krowngraphics; http://krowngraphics.webs.com/apps/photos/photo?photoid=43873623
Will I finally be chosen tonight?
The storm-clouds are gathered,
Trembling in the sight,
Of streaks of sunlit-air.
Yes, I see it there…in light.
Is it my turn to be taken?
Basked in branched eye-stars,
Which carry with a shakin’,
My soul to heaven above?
O’ leave me not forsaken!
For forever I will be,
Longing to be there and free.
K. Aldaya, 8/7/05
Picture: “Stairway to Heaven” by floriancats on Deviant Art; http://floriancats.deviantart.com/art/Stairway-to-heaven-346613349
The shadows of the night…
Those raven travailing mysteries,
Of the deaths proven contrite,
To any acceptable causalities,
In the slaying of virgin light.
(Which loyally escape in fright!)
Granting each gravestone stern,
A momentary flit of indication,
In the tranquil earth all earn,
When time meets Gods’ discretion,
And bowing, falls in lost sojourn.
O’ shadow-phantoms which be,
Present thyself to querying minds…
The dead, floating on a moonlit sea,
Which count stars each sky finds,
Misunderstandably.
For ask me not how or why,
You must journey in midnights’ hush,
Tormenting dead and living nigh,
With what can be or not lush,
In Hell, on Earth, or heaven high.
Spoiled with bones and memories;
Creaks and moans in shadows wither,
Tears fall as leaves on cold fall trees,
Drowning the dead, unmoving hither.
Casts of portrayed black air,
Curse the dreaming dead,
By stomping on graves made there,
Waking and calling up from bed,
To glance with eyes, the ended care
(Visions they no longer share).
The blood-thirsty and ever tired,
Thrown with pulsed beats and motions,
Seek for what should be acquired,
In learning how to sail the oceans,
To find that sinkings are required.
Carved silhouettes ashen,
Somberly turn glances once wild,
To the tombs of times’ crash-in.
The cries of every once-held child,
In scars of graystone and sin.
O’ those black silent pictures,
Of what can soon or far-off be,
Shown in burnt coal blurs….
The internal imagery,
Of what ever-endures,
As eternal destiny.
K. Aldaya, 7/27/05
Picture: “Reflection of Death” by Corvinerium on Deviant Art; http://corvinerium.deviantart.com/art/Reflection-Of-Death-355014597
You truly don’t know what the hours can bring,
The shrill stinging-winters, and fresh buds of Spring.
The seasons hastily wither on,
All entangled and used as a pawn,
In the deaths nights discernibly bring.
The graveyards are open for guests or the dead,
And isn’t that you when you sleep in your bed,
Dreaming of a consistent view,
Agreeable to aspirations in you?
Which disintegrate, with all I’ve said.
Don’t worry my plot has been worked myriad ages,
Slumbering shallow there, in ordered stages.
Tombstone reads, “Here lies the dead”,
And yes, I’m still lying here in my bed,
Citing forth head-words to pages.
You truly don’t know what the hours carry,
Floating o’er my ossuary.
I’ve bled, and bled, and bled to live;
But to ghosts, time cannot give,
Blindness to what all can see.
(So just leave your knife inside of me.)
I remember the smell of damp death and earth,
And the screaming silence of broken-birth,
Driven to solace with your purging-pain,
A blade of turmoil and chaos to the brain.
For you see?….
Your souls’ deathbed was granted as my worth.
K. Aldaya, 7/13/05
Picture: “Feet Strapped Down in Bed” by Mary Ellen Mark: http://www.maryellenmark.com/; http://www.bulgergallery.com/dynamic/images/display/Mary_Ellen_Mark_Feet_Strapped_Down_in_Bed_1976_c1976_1858_41.jpg
My Soul is a Lock Without a Key 
