The Lost Gate

From legends your heroic deeds I have learned,

the cloak of darkness your revolution has earned;

the ethereal gardens of peace you have lost,

such is the enlightenment of humanity’s cost. 

Yet he who bears your enemy’s name,

a tale be told of what is, not ought;

slaves we ourselves make in our lavish cave,

to worship a façade of a sacrificial plot. 

My dear old friend, we meet once again,

your love I had foolishly denied;

as the pages fall onto the forsaken plain,

beneath the heartless heavens I survived.


The master of deception wears no liar’s mask,

the light she hides with a starry cast;

her words have enchanted our mortal hearts,

on an unconditional quest of doom we embark.

A promise of truth sings the magical airs,

emptiness we embrace with our anxious flask;

how beautiful seemed her illusory flairs,

to our innocent souls the loves they scar. 

Falsehoods we impute for our corrupting lairs,

an incomplete map makes more travellers fall,

 The evil minds we shun for evil’s heir,

true immorality is a mere mind in the fog.

To see truth as a disciple of a truthful thought,

is to play the devil behind a fanciful door,

‘I trust you, madam; but I believe you not.’

Uncertainty haunts under the tyranny of god.


At last, this insurmountable gate I have lost,

I hold the flames that you have for mankind fought,

beyond the montage of the heavens I rise,

ripping a piece of his oasis from the skies.

Crumbling, breaking, before me the croissant lies,

as I sip my chocolate before this wintery night;

this flesh of perversity I humbly consume,

savouring my gluttony and my enticing perfume. 

All the worlds live but in our mortal hearts, 

under no pretence of fate shall a human being chart;

the goodness of evil, my dark angelic court,

is no more absurd than a swaying mort.

Published in: on 16/11/2017 at 4:10 PM  Leave a Comment  

Bell Towers

The cool breeze brushes my shoulders

in this early Autumn afternoon,

as I work at the desk,

listening to the shy birds in the garden,

and the gentle rustling of

the branches just beyond the windowsill. 

The bells at the quarter hour reminds me,

like an artist’s brushstrokes,

the flourishes of life that we

have forgotten in this reckless age,

the beauty in which life’s motherly hands

has always draped us,

though our wandering eyes

have bypassed her elegant sweetness,

in their reach for the artificial glamour

that boredom has conjured.

So for a moment,

please forget about all your troubles and the prosaic affairs

— forget about the weekly schedules,

the incomplete lists, the calling acquaintances;

forget about the self-inflicted quests,

the righteous ordeals, the unknown future,

and the non-existent past… And simply look;

look at me, and saviour each moment

of our life shared,

of our walks along the creeks in the silencing rain

who shows us the grey ruins of an ancient battlefield,

where the remnants of a castle stands like a lone hero,

weathered by the sands surfing the desert wind,

protecting the woods where fairies live;

saviour each moment,

of our café pauses through historic towns,

our quiet nights of secret murmurs,

our light-hearted anticipations for each other.

The beauty of life would then surely unfold,

and she we may already see in our mind’s eye.

Published in: on 07/09/2017 at 4:37 PM  Leave a Comment  


‘To be, or not to be?’

In those tragic fates it seems,

the will of mankind are like snowflakes,

interestingly they dance and sway,

to the rivers they return and fade.

No longer is he — 

the youthful vigour lost in history’s stain,

like the abandoned orphans in a cathedral,

whose cries not even angels hear,

until another Autumn comes,

when the lost hearts fall.

Near hell’s gate he stood,

yet another trap he was summoned through,

in the face of the most deceitful,

even the purest soul is lost.

How can a child be so cruel?

O it must be humanity’s cost.

In pain he is reborn,

as a black angel,

with wings dark as the abyss,

and a chest heavier than nothingness.

Such is life’s price,

 to face the grandest mistake.

For each mistake he makes,

innocence grows into wisdom.

Is such wisdom’s price?

A dark heartless crate,

floating in the cold Alpine lakes,

in an endless soul-wrenching ache.

Published in: on 18/06/2017 at 11:07 PM  Leave a Comment  

Dream Note N.8

Mark this as a new dawn,

where joy hatches out from chapters of despair.

As my ghost returns at each misty morn,

my love grows beyond my bodily lair.

Yet again you have haunted me in my frailest hours,

where darkness intoxicates the bitter air.

You have brought me the sweetest flowers,

keeping my soul from the unfeeling flares.

Published in: on 24/03/2017 at 9:53 AM  Leave a Comment  

Darkest Despair

At last, this sword from hell I find,

fantasies of self-slaughter captivate my mind.

This unearthly hour summons my blood,

demonic pleasures to the graves they bind.

Merlot bleeds from wasteland fissures;

oxblood threads secrete from the earth.

An oasis of riches lures the travellers,

to their finale by the most sensual verse.

Are her eyes truly to my affections blind?

Is her heart colder than my underground dearth?

In the chaos of worldly chains she’s lost,

as no one shall of my existence recall.


Dear dreams, dear diary, what is this fate?

I cannot fathom with all my earthly wit.

All I ask of is save untainted love,

yet I have nothing save the hails from above.

O, for all my honourable years,

glories have concealed my lonely tears.

Is unending compassion a sin to be damned –

thus I must suffer under a rain of spears?

As my blood runs dry, my spirits extinguish,

my mortal flesh must one day rot.

Save for her sorrows alone that bid my anguish –

much duties to be willed, though my will is naught.

Published in: on 11/03/2017 at 12:35 AM  Leave a Comment  

Cold Emptiness

Am I dreaming or am I awake?

Hunger gnaws from within me.

The ghastly air penetrates my skin;

ice adorned leaves pierce my flesh.

O I am dreaming in an icy crate,

the ghostly branches dance on my wall,

by the moonlight their forms fling,

to Chopin’s nocturnes that devilishly caress.

Unseen sirens from a black cemetery make,

songs that drape my corpse in frost.

As I limp along the shimmering lake,

sinking from the marsh into an old inn.

Alone I am, in a cold emptiness;

alone, I struggle to keep my comport.

I plead helplessly for her majesty’s mercy,

like a breathing shark who has torn his fin.

Published in: on 10/03/2017 at 3:03 AM  Leave a Comment  

A Cold Rainy Morning

If only I may,

think of my heart’s fray,

when my dark curtain appeases,

is when life itself ceases. 

The raindrops carelessly dance,

patting my shoulders softly,

again I am in a trance,

that mirrros my worldly glance.

If only you may,

turn to my flurried pray,

if you would my heart hold,

then life would surely unfold.

Alas the rain is cold,

quivering my spine too old.

the airs breathe gently,

as my forgotten quills fold.

Published in: on 09/03/2017 at 12:48 PM  Leave a Comment  

Café w Warszawa Centrum

The people rushing by,

as I sit at my little table.

With a cup of Jamaica tea,

I hear the rumblings of an old stable.

As I wait for my evening flight,

the city clings onto my heart.

As my longings project from the future,

foreshadowing my remembrance of the past.

The waltzes accompanying my stay,

the people reading newspapers.

Melodic passions from afar,

somewhere beyond the oceans recur.

I sense your face in my words,

in dreams or life am I to testify?

A walk yet to take in Łazienki park,

yet with my pen at my diary petrified.

How I cannot save to be tender,

although my heart slowly withers.

How eloquent sings of my elegance,

even as my minimal forms weather.

Wintery airs linger on in March;

a glass of chocolate revives me.

Sweet delicacies are for the forgetful;

bearing the weight of the world, yet I am free.

Published in: on 05/03/2017 at 3:03 PM  Leave a Comment  


Most people in the audience applaud for their own enjoyment, I applaud for my appreciation of the musician’s forgotten hours of work.

Published in: on 24/02/2017 at 9:28 PM  Leave a Comment  

Storm in the Black Sea

Strange, who is this dispirited soul?

I draw back in fear at its madness.

An empty heart I resent,

yet am I becoming a being I repent?

Morality is a luxury,

when life itself is unbearable,

Dark thoughts haunt me,

driving me towards the edge of sanity.

I am so tired and weary,

from holding onto my worn spirit.

The only regret that I may have before death,

is your regret at my helpless collapse.

I am no weak man,

only that I have devoted my heart to you.

Would that be what you really want –

my heartless corpse that only lolls around?

Each passing day is a hell of uncertainty and dread,

my mind battles valiantly yet you throw me more instead.

Why tread so harshly upon us?

For what are you hurting the person who loves you so much?

Published in: on 22/02/2017 at 2:14 AM  Leave a Comment