Aphrael (akteri) wrote in catharticangel,

Sometimes the muse...

is a vengeful, spiteful little bitch who refuses to let go - especially when she feels she's been neglected for oh so long.

What of Love

What of love?

Heaven makes means to
Kill our joy with love.

It’s suffering;
It’s anguish;
It’s pain.

And yet
We must have it –
At any cost!

Are you so enamored
That you’ll overlook
Your love of life?
Are you willing to sacrifice
One mistress for another?

I’ve seen you
Smell the sea;
Gaze overhead at
The stars at night.

Look into your heart and
Tell me that you’re willing –
Willing to make the choice to
Bleed again when the
Proper stimulus strikes!

I know your secret;
I know your darkest dreams and
Their soul destroying frequency.

The heart has its reasons
Whereof reason knows nothing


How dark can your existence be
When compared to an eternal void?

What do you see from
Where you stand?
A bright light at the
End of the tunnel?
Is it possibly
A ray of hope?
A glimmer of something better?

Or will it burn you like
The rising sun?

Are you hearing the trumpeting of
St. Peter’s angels?
Or the screams of
Memnoch’s tortured souls?

You will never know the answer until
After the deed is done.

Is your faith really that strong?


One short sleep past –
We awake eternally, and
Death shall be no more.

Death, thou shalt die!

Ah, but there is a
Price to be paid.

Love may be tasted yet
Never savored.
In the darkest moments,
We may envy mortality.

Guilt is a poison.

A vampyre lives in
A constant state of
Desire and disgust.
His very nature often
Revolts him, but
He doesn’t have the will
To deny the basest urge –
To deny his indulgences.

There’s the killing, but
There’s also the pleasure;
The sensuality;
The lust;
The sheer ecstasy of it all.

No one can know
His isolation;
No one feels so profoundly
His absence of faith.

No one can know that
Delirious drowning feeling of
Plunging into
A crimson saline ocean.

Yet no one will also know
The shame so staggering as to
Bow the shoulders of
The mightiest emperor.


They say no two people are alike.
Never is that more true than when
It comes to the deepest, darkest part
Of our very souls -
Our desires.

Some cherish what
Others abhor.

One man’s precious cargo is
Another man’s poison.

Some prize what
Others revile.

Prize what you will;
Prize what you can;

Always remember –
Even he who dies with
The most prizes…

Still dies.

Broken Toys

Do you mourn an end
That came too soon?
A love that might have been?

We are haunted by
Long after
The broken pieces of
Our pretty, untouched toys
Are swept away.

It was all so illusory.
Illusion remains.
Illusion is such an empty cup.

“Might have been” is
A notion that can grow
To fill your whole world.

Pretending can become
A way of life if we let it.

We convince ourselves that
Everything would be different,
Everything would be all right –
If only we had our toy back.

Some of us do survive our losses.
Some of us prefer to
get even and go on,
Though we're never quite the same.

Loss can be a growth experience.

But lives change,
Lives are twisted, and
All over a broken toy.


Do you dream of

Spinning down into
The darkness
From a great height…

Limbs failing,
Heart pounding,
Knowing that you're going to
Hit the ground at
Any second –
But then you awaken?

You never do seem to
Strike the ground.

it would seem a wise man shouldn't
Fear a dream of falling, but
A dream of dying –

An instant of


What makes
A family?

A home?

What do those things
Make of us?

What molds us into
The shapes that
Us when we look in
The mirror?

What makes us
To others?
To ourselves?

Our own perverse wills?

All of the above?

This is a multiple choice exercise.

Think hard before you answer.

Choose as if your life depended on it.

The Chill Of Winter

Where is he?

Slipped away like
A child in the fairground –
Lost in the crowd.

Does he wander through
The noise,
Searching for
The hand that guides?

Does he embrace the
Heavenly alchemy,
Breathing liberty like
The fresh flower that
Brings the summer?

Fades into
'Forever', and
she is left

To face the chill of


Winter is
The kindest season.
The heart will not
Melt in winter.

Chilled by the cold,
We are spared
The guilt,
The sorrow,
The messy emotion of

Winter is
For the lonely.
Its cold touch soothes
the battered heart.

Hellish Alchemy

Love exists,
Rages within.
A silent scream of
Endless pain.

Hellish alchemy indeed.

Love is
Without equal.

Not death -
Not hell itself,
But a precious flower
Long withered and gone.

There's a price to be paid.

Love may be tasted but
Never savored.

St. Valentine

A blip on the monitor of
Involuntary human response.
A hiccup of emotion when
Compared with envy,

Power comes with the
Absence of love.
Love drains us of
Our strength.

We never learn,
Do we?

Yet they say that love conquers all.

Not for you,
St. Valentine.

Not for me.

Not for any of
The heartbroken.


How it toys with us.
Makes utter fools of us –
Flogs, whips, and spanks us.

Listen to the voices of the unloved
As they surge and retreat
Into the black of night.

Hushed whispers uttered in
Empty rooms and lonely beds,
The hunger of love unattained,
Rushing through our fingers,

And yet…

When we touch this love
It burns us with its bright flame;
It punishes.
It consumes.

And yet…

We must have it.
It rules us –

And yet…

Why do we always
Crawl back for more?


A hallucination of some famous regret.
Mistakes in our past we’ve made.
These come not from beyond the pale
But rise up from our gravest doubts –
Doubts about ourselves and
The very world we live in.

Each ill conceived notion we have,
Each ill considered thing we’ve done is
A ghost which haunts us for eternity –
If we let it.

Regret is for the foolish;
The weak;
The tormented.

Kill it
Before it bleeds you.


A familiar sound disturbs the silence
Of the blackest night,
Screaming through the air on
A breath of a chilled wind.
A lonely woman’s cry for justice,
Justice demanded from beyond death.

What justice is sweeter –
Sweeter than the purest honey –
Than that exacted by
Those who have been wronged?
The down trodden, the victims –
Those very souls we’re meant to protect.

What law is more perfect –
More so than the visage of an angel –
Than those exercised by an advocate –
One who moves swiftly and sure with
An iron tight resolve to move
Mountains in a fight for the cause.

Only those who have practiced it –
The very art and science of
Know the morals of this lesson for
A man who studies revenge
Keeps his own wounds clean.

*sits back, panting and exhausted - yet bathed in an afterglow*
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