In the secret chambers of a tranquil mirage, I am captive to the doom that awaits–
This romance of apocalyptic fantasies in the fires of a November storm.
Frigid sands of an ancient secret, send me to the eyes of redemption’s kiss;
Transform me in the land of virgin screams, absent of mindless torment,
For I will become a temptress in waiting, a scornful apparition of death.
I am hated, and will always be so; love me not in the frost of the snow-filled prison of despair.
The embers of my execution day, revived in the scent of oblivion’s flame;
I was chained in the days of my innocent youth, and burned by the hatred of scorn.
“You who consumed my faith in the silence of a stalker’s dream,
Will feel the fear which I felt; you shall taste the poison of my tears,
Convulse in the pain of my soul’s blade, a dagger of unending nightmares.”
Alive, and yet dead, the spirits of the past are reborn.
A vicious circle, trapped in the core; I cannot see the end of torment’s consuming fear.
What I am, lost in the chaos of emotions that dwell in the heart of the storm;
A mirage of consciousness, thunder in the audience of life;
Visions long forgotten return to the source of dreams,
As I travel the labyrinth of my mind, a frost-laden fury guides my eyes.
Raging flame of my will, passion’s elusive paths are revealed in the chasms of November ice.
mistressofpoetry 