Poetica Atelli

Minotaur Alabaster obelisks pierce seas shimmering white, Emerald orbs are cast against imaginary flesh. Ever do the visions heave hallucinated sight, Shattered crimson altars lay collapsed under duress. Each moment worming weaver wanders wide the labyrinth, Aimless in direction, bound unto the pitch-dark chains, The plaster-cast on pedestal into the centre sinks, The image of a house of cards seeks king of clubs to reign. Rattling in tune, a choir sings with one croaking voice, Shrill and cackling at first, shrill and shrieking soon. Torn asunder in cascade, the noise drowned out in choice, Soon the silence seizes thrones and turns it to a tomb. No golden thread adorns the waist of this new Theseus, No way back, its glimmer, gleam is severed, hope is gone, Trailing all off into naught, once gold now coloured rust, It lays drowning, cut away where once he did belong. It vanished off into that great and endless gaping maw, Abyssal pathways lead to inner sanctums gilded skin, As beastly breath is heard and cloven hooves strike at the floor, A chill will waltz its way across the spine and over skin. A creature born but half a man, abomination spawned, Snarling wrath sees whimpers plucked from iron-scented air. In the prisoner’s cinema his bloody limbs take form, That bull-headed beast became of man beyond repair.

Monolith A wheezing wind drags cold across a concrete monolith. Familiar form, its embers glow against the throne it sits. Chills come on as waves of teeth to gnaw remains waylaid, A million mouths spit light into the depths of void’s cascade. Hexagrams and talons jut from heaven-piercing peaks, While the wanderer walks well the haze of empty streets. Nostalgia for the cold returns, for ever-evening dusk, Beneath the concrete monolith, the empty, quiet husk. Winding trails fall silent, untread, the clattered assault on the senses has ceased, And though a dull ache may still dwell on the bones, nevertheless the soul can know peace. A thousand eyes stare blank, iris yellow, concealed blinking, blinding flash, Marking in whispers the passage of time, until the dawn breaks just as glass.

Mad Iris This pale creature painted in shimmering frame is far from a wandering shade. A crude imitation of simmering form, severed from all that saw it made. With soul forged from discarded truth, skin apprehension, and bones of dismay, Placed within prisons of likeness and glass leading lightless reflections astray. Wearing false face and holding the gaze, each movement more fraud than the last, It dwells not in shadow nor out in the light, the madness to it is a mask. The hatred and malice that broods in the blood has in it been long laid to rest, A simple reflection of all it perceives; it is far more than that, and yet less. There is fear in the eyes not present in mine, the pupils are quivering thin, There is a falsehood made clear on its silvery face, there is terror behind its red grin. Its mind is deprived of the beast in the bones, afflicted by atrophy, rot, A plea for mercy is made in the veil that I know in mine dwells there not. Limbs move too slowly, a hesitant pulse, it cannot foresee the next move, Unwilling to act upon what can be seen, perception pries open the tomb. So slow in desire of mimicking form that is copied in such fine detail, But in that split second I clear see the truth and the trick of illusion there fails. I see water pool in the iris beneath, but in mine I may feel not the same, By night vision burns with a madness that grows, and those tears dissipate on the flames. That glass-borne likeness looks up upon me, in horror and utter despair, For I look down on an image of me, and it unto savagery stares.

In Venom and Wine Twin fates find the brothers’ blood, Souls denied their bodies born, Threads of Fate umbilical, From inner sanctum torn. Hopeless, lightless, loveless life, A joy repaid in kind, Crimson waters of the womb, Drowned in venom, drowned in wine. Maul with glass and cold machine, Spare not the babe at heaving breast, Mercy from the form flows not, The fanged jaw sought bleeding chest. Forgotten, weightless burden guilt, Washed away with passing time, Left as but a bloodstain, Drowned in venom, drowned in wine. In shadows mechanism churns, In silence malice thrives, Damn the first and damn the last, The second son survives. The others born to gnashing teeth, Devoid of the Divine, Deprived of Godly mission, Drowned in venom, drowned in wine.

Death of Penthesilea Lifeless into loving arms, the light in pale eyes wanes, By one of grief and passion caught and by the same hand slain. In silver gleamed her dying form that was by blade beset, Only to meet tender hold of bitterness, regret. As strong as swing of swords so was, as bright as brazen blades, As blinding as the furrowed mist, the burning crimson haze, In their flurried savagery, they clashed with godly grace, Until the ashen spearpoint found its teeth in her fair waist. Her assailant swept at her with eyes in wrath aflame, She who waltzed as lioness as lamb to slaughter came. Each blow he struck was ruthless as she dodged and ducked and weaved, All the while his hatred sought her head from shoulders cleaved. His spear came upon her throat, thrusting at her neck; Achilles’ swift and godlike hand took all her strength to check. Dust now swirled around them as their blades pierced through the mist, But the onslaught of the Myrmidon was not hers to resist. And thus she lay within his grasp as violent vision cleared, Her form of flawless beauty now by his blade deeply pierced. Collapsing, gasping, breathless, now her crimson lifeblood spilt, For not in first of recent days his anger stoked his guilt. His princehood was of suffering, in crown of anguish reigned, As she who might have soothed him fell in his arms swiftly slain. Countless times presented with a way from Fate-set path, But each time they passed beneath the whirlwind of his wrath. The Fates had wrought a path for him through living and the dead, But each time a crossroads found, his own hand cut the thread. He looked upon her icy eyes, this godly Queen of Thrace, And saw a thousand futures in the tears that streaked her face. He saw their passionate embrace, their souls and forms entwined, He saw their children roam their halls, saw smiling faces shine, And though they said not one kind word as breath there left her bones, Losing maiden stranger left him somehow more alone. As her helm fell from her head, her hair to shoulders spilled, And Achilles wept unto the woman he had killed. Her dust-soaked locks there framed her face, she murmured silent cries, Mirrored by her slayer’s, as the two locked shining eyes. He would have wished she take his hand and be his wedded wife, But rather she would take his hand; the hand that took her life. Such beauty taken from this world by his hand brought dismay, Weightless in his gentle hands, there maiden dying lay. He dwelt upon the threads of fate, her eyes now ran with tears, The darkness came to veil her eyes by would-be lover’s spear. In combat they had come to blows, the both beyond all blame, But still the Myrmidon looked down at her in awe and shame. He lay her resting gently with the days that could have been; He would have loved with all his heart, she might have been his queen. But Phthia was beyond them now, their fate had long been sealed, And he knew he’d soon join her, dead amidst the Trojan fields.

A Thousand Ships O’ Helen born again once more, thy beauty fosters rage And pity in mine tender heart that thou was’t born this age. In any other era, warriors would know thy worth, And poets praise thy beauty as the finest here on earth. Thy presence would inspire deeds that severed threads of fate, Thy love’s declaration would have nations’ breath abate. Paris would have loved thee even if love was unjust, But love of one fairs better than a thousand beasts in lust. Courageous men would take up arms and draw their brazen swords, Their ships would number thousands, laying siege to foreign lands, The bravest would do battle far afield on silver shores, In order to return to thee and take in theirs thy hand. Once men were torn asunder in their passions to be wed, Seeking kingdoms toppled or a fearsome dragon slain. Thou art seen for little now but notches in the bed, And little consolation comes from those who still remain. Thy beauty stripped of the divine and passion’s flames fall cold, Thy perfect form reduced unto a product bought and sold. Lusted after, never loved, by those to sin enslaved, Never knowing such a face sent empires to their grave. Once men at arms with fearless hearts sought cities to be razed, But now thou art too much upon the mind to meet its praise. For women fair as thee, there once would wage a thousand wars, But what use is glory when such beauty is ignored.

Spectre O' ghostly apparition faded into blind impermanence, A shimmered shape that scarce remains with features indeterminate, I see thy glimmer haunts the halls and stalks the palace of the mind, But scouring the shadows precious little do I find. Thine images once kaleidoscope, now all awash with ashen grey, Statues thought as marble then were found to be paper maché. The mind recalls green orbs of fire, fine straw brushed gently into place, And yet naught else is present when I search the shifting spectre's face.

The Wanderer Fever dreams ran rampant, outward grasping empty space, Through a mist descended swift in hesitated chase. Concrete bleeds a wayward skull, the bones are bade to break, "For what doth thou suffer still?" the silent voices spake. Wherefore goes thou, wanderer, who not so long ago Did drive the stars as cattle to the tune of ebb and flow? To what end doth thou pursue the path that thou was't set? Returning under omened moons in dances of regret. Scars trace trenches on the skin, the impacts easy found, Secrets sought the light of day, untethered and unbound. Taunting in thy tempest glow, as pawn upon thy game, I saw thy hand, ethereal, trace skin scarred just the same. Far and wide I weathered storms to see once more the smile, But all I would be met with was the vicious, bitter bile. I reach out to grasp thee and thou waltzes off once more, I should have learned to dance with thee in fairness, love and war. O' wanderer where dost thou cross in guise of absent bane? Ever do I look for thee in light that ever wanes. There did I take reigns once more, as in thy galloped glow, Thou once more revealed to me the form that few may know. Thy light can come as fever that into my darkness crept, Devouring the carrion, and I am what is left. Amidst the ashen earth there left in wake a sickness carved, All praise the starving artist as the starving artist starves.

Sin Eater Whirlwinds whisper distant storms, The sleeping mind adheres. Enticing, crystalline in form, A sudden silken fear. Homes are torn, bones are born, All that was; waylaid, forlorn, And still it beckons with the beacons lit. Gnashing teeth will endless gnaw at fragment memories, Hunger for it rapid grows, be granted no release. The puncture marks and stitches wove are monuments to shame; Attempt to take the taste again from skeletal remains.

In The Temple of Iron Strike upon the anvil as the fire melts the weaker flesh, Ceaseless in your onward march, coursing without rest. Feel the war-drums beating with the weakness scoured from your bones; All sins against the self in Iron Temple are atoned. Fire, pain and boiling blood, pouring through expanding veins, Let the waste be set alight in praise of what remains. Delve into your own reserves, let your strength be found, Mark well sweat that sits your brow and let it be your crown. Whether sparks already fly or embers dimly glow, It is a tragedy for one to not his own strength know. All of us who worship come to tread the same old path, Whether in endurance or in duty, or in wrath. Strike the steel that is your form, strike it hard and true, The anvil, hammer and the blade dwelling all in you. Mold your very image just as marble or as clay, To the Iron Temple come, and to the iron pray.