Autumnal Equinox LVI

Seasons In Hell

Season Belial emerges from the shadows, cloven hooves quaking the earth up from The Pit. 

For Lo, have we descended into The Abyss, passing through the unholy black fire, empowered even still.

The solace of the Night, by Lucifer's hellantern resplendent in the darkness of the mind. Regeneration timelessness.

'Neath Hecate's soothing embrace, the harvest moon shines bright, revealing the path to autumnal delights.

The Devil's Mirror reflects the face of Satan, the masks of pleasure and terror! Rejoice! The Beast has arisen! ∞

In Nomine Satanas,

Rev. Warlock Draconis Blackthorne

Autumnal Equinox, LVI Anno Satanas

Haunted Noctuary, Draconian Empire

* Rite: Hellemental Mass

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Hail Satan!

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My Dream: Confront with My Death

In the night of sore darkness

In the thunderstorms,

A hungry plant lapping water

Till it’s too stiff to stand.


Striving to nap against my hand

In my own bed

Blinking my memorable eyes

At someone totally engaged in

Carving the night into figurine

That blows out midnight candle.


The wind wearing the curtain

In my room perceive the tree

The soundless howling

Of faceless ghosts

Digging the ground by its toes

Into my back to be in hurry.


When these ghosts came

To drag me out of my bed,

In the other world, my beloved

Beading her hair and

Plucking butterflies from cactus plants.


I shrieked from inside a fountain

A mermaid warned me to be silent.


Alas! I dreamt of me

Walking into the fast moving cars

And waking up with the wrecked arms

Just in the next morning.                                    


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When an eve elapsed by,

A chilly pallid half-moon

Sets below my lip,

And the other half-moon

Lies inside my mouth.

Tearing the flesh apart

Out of its body

Tastes the veal of craving,

Emerges out the spits

As the heap of soils

After the digging the earth

To unearth another world

of eternal bliss and ecstasy

I longed during my life.  


Never sentient I’m of

My spit spilling steadily

Out of my mouth

Like the fizzy blood,

The tint of my craving

That fiddles in

The heap of the words

In which my pen as the shovel

Shoves out the metaphors and similes

In the poetry of my essence.


During the lifetime,

I’m hectic in exploring

The ultimate truth

Of immortality never existed,

Not aware of the mortality of

My life and my existence

Only a fraction of a second

Appraising the life span

Of the earth I subsisted.  


The World As Music (January day 16)

the white blanket

as the world wakes

plays twinklings in my head

as if every flake had once been

a silver bell


i find all the possibilities,

all the music wrapped in these notes

like i can find the new in every moment


and yes the earth makes sounds as always but

i hear something else


like the slight shift the wind causes

a thousand years from now


like the rustle of heartbeats

under my first footstep


like something is whispering



look at all this imperfect

the crystals that don’t quite reach my skin

(yes I know I need new boots

but that is a worry for

after the shimmer is washed away

and the last note echoes out,

wraps itself into the hearts of all of us.)

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 1/16/21

Small things

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Methodic Madness

Enslaving chains and wilderness pains 

are broken on healing heavenly domain 

plus graceful throne, envisioned. 


Method upholds this marauding madness 

aflicting us on earthly journeys through 

wounded wilderness, deadly disdain 

and frighful famine; distressing 

humankind and nature. 


Twisted minds and wicked souls  

torment humankind on this earthly  

journey through birth, life and death. 

Yet, we came with nothing; and with 

nothing, we depart to earth's dust.  


Hideous hypocrisy darkens love to 

hide this greatest reality from heaven's 

green pastures, meadows and 

river bed, unchained.  


We follow this river path to oceans 

lighted by divine mercy and unending 

salvation; healing broken hearts and 

bleeding, lost souls. 



Eerie voices creeping around corners and eaves,

laughing and whispering their promise of the coming storm.


Crying frustration at the trees that grasp but can not hold,

tearing leaf from limb as it passes.


Turbulent passage through alleyways and streets,

spiraling into devils against all who dare resist.


Carried away with reckless abandon into the night

and blowing straight to the sea

to rejoice as a gale to finally be free…..

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem about the wind

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C'est un sous bois ou coule une rivière 

Tout est calme et on sent dans l'air

Une odeur de mousse, très légère


La passoire des arbres filtre le liquide soleil, 

Parfois une feuille tombe, vermeille

On ferme les yeux, on entend une abeille


Mollement, une salamandre comateuse

Du haut de sa souche creuse

Observe avec envie une bonne limace juteuse


Tout est calme, tout est tranquille

On sent dans l'air le parfum d'Avril

Pendant que loin, très loin, le temps file.

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A l'abri de l'homme, dans un petit sous-bois

Au dessus de la mare et sous le chant des oiseaux

Virevolte un papillon dans l'air chaud 

Qui sans lui ne serait qu'un palais sans roi


De mille couleurs, répandant sa poudre dorée 

De sa danse enchantée, une valse de toute beauté

Ses ailes, fragiles paupières 

Décorent de somptueux motifs la clairière 


Mis en extase par le prince des vents

Les rayons solaires pleuvent, arrêtent le temps

Et sur deux fins miroirs naissent mille étincelles 


Vraie poudre de fée, cette pluie argentée

Nous badigeonne le coeur d'un sentiment; le bonheur 

Et nous impose de pronomcer deux mots sacrés

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Bleu saphir

Loin sous l'herbe, coup de pioche

Des jeunes hommes soufflent. Combien souffrent encore demain ?

Puis, dans un sursaut, l'un d'eux de sa main 

Dévoile une étoile bleue dans la roche


La Terre fut amputée, l'étincelle se meurt

Pas plus grosse qu'un sou, couleur d'océan

Le mineur, dans sa prison de souffre ardent

Ne verra plus qu'en rêve sa couleur


Sur le doigt de fer d'un monstre d'acier

La goutte étoilée ne luit plus 

Même pas de quoi éclaire


Les sinistres sourires des mangeur de Terre

Qui, en tout point semblables aux vers

Moisissent la pomme et Pourrissent l'espoir.

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