Is This All?

I see you have found another and you’re gone
Leaving me in my bleak thoughts, confused, alone

I am falling into mind-consuming pain
As I turn and see the falling of the rain

I am lost in my guilt, filled with great self-doubt
I’ve lost what I’ve built, what can I do now

Is this all that I can know?

I am falling into mind-consuming pain
As I turn and see the falling of the rain

I am lost in my guilt, filled with great self-doubt
I’ve lost what I’ve built, what can I do now

This is all that I deserve.

The Folly of the Usurper

"God. I, and every other human since the concept was introduced, have wondered if this being exists. I can't be sure if He does or not, but I can be sure on whether Satan exists or not. He does. His purpose is to deceive and conquer. He is a petty, warmongering Hellspawn. I have looked into his eyes, and seen his handiwork. The Cold Boy. The Quiet. The Plague Doctor. He has created these monsters. He will not stop until he is defeated.

"Will you help the cause."

Thus spake the usurper, bravely out of range of rebuke

Hiding behind dynamic defence, always replacing defeated forms.

This hunter from beyond our borders assails not one, but all of us

While promising to amass his own numbers for grim usurpation.

Time, time, and time again he is beaten back

Yet still he persists

Crying for retribution for some supposed sleight on our part

To him, brother, and their friend

And all the while not-so-subtly attempting coercion

By empty threats of self-destruction.

And lo! one great defender speaks:

"I will never allow you back in, not if this is how you view us."

And with his decree, all who hear, we stalwart defenders,

Rally in an instant to our home's defence

Whereupon the folly of the usurper is illuminated for all

And he might know that we are, and always will be,

Stronger, more persistent than he.

Haiku 3

In silence I stand
Watching as my hope erodes
For I am alone

Terrence Anathema Transcribes: Autopsychography

(By Fernando Pessoa , 1931, translated by Richard Zenith)

The poet is a faker

Who’s so good at his act

He even fakes the pain

Of pain he feels in fact.

And those who read his words

Will feel in his writing

Neither of the pains he has

But just the one they’re missing.

And so around its track 

This thing called the heart winds, 

A little clockwork train

To entertain our minds.