The Hunter of DreamsOnce upon a century,The Hunter of Dreams by Arkantia
When the dark ages still weighted on the shoulders of our Mother Earth,
Was a man.
Simple he was, neither a fool nor a scientist,
No more stupid than he was brave,
No beggar and no wealthy.
All grey in this black and white ancient world.
Few were the people who dared to look at him,
For he was as unfathomable as September’s misty dawn,
Deep were his eyes, the blackest one could ever see.
In the streets there were no soul to meet for him.
But he did not care.
His secret was all he was living for.
He used it every night, when the Moon was high
And when all the city quaked sitting by the houses’ hearth,
Hearing the beasts whose kind disappeared long ago.
He waited for children to fall asleep, to gently climb onto their window’s side,
And to fall asleep, his mind plunging into the dreams of his host.
For a Hunter of dreams he was.
Resting calm against the glass,
Feeling the soft and freezing winter’s air,
His fingers brushing a
One foot in the grave...I bitterly learnt that one’s worst pain was not always physical.One foot in the grave... by Arkantia
This feeling of razor blades slaughtering your happiness,
That constant weight that make any recovery impossible.
This Monster devouring you bit by bit,
Releasing its mischief to send you down that bridge you walk on every day
Struggling to make you look at this knife with envy
Vomiting its bowels into your mind just so you begin to become insane.
“Why didn’t you come to the party last night?”
“Why do you always say no when we want to go out with you?”
“Just try to get better, everyone has problems, get over it”
I hate you.
How can you say “I know how you feel”?
You’re not in my head.
You can’t give me advice.
The best you can do is to support me.
I promised the one I love that I will fight for him.
For I don’t want to leave him alone.
But my willpower begins to fade.
My strength has gone,
And it seems like my courage will soon run away as well.
Le MonstreLe Monstre.Le Monstre by Arkantia
Nous avions nourri nous-mêmes ce qui allait nous dévorer. A coups de mécaniques, d'arrache-poumons, de rembourrage plastique, nous avions entretenu le Monstre. Et à présent nous en payions le prix. Cela, je pouvais le supporter. J'étais plus courageux que le milliard d'autres robots, qui, en laissant la panique les envahir, s'étaient condamnés. Garder son calme, inspirer ; vider sa tête, expirer. Ce qui me pesait le plus était la notion de temps. Le temps, les jours, les mois, les années que mettrait le Monstre à lentement stopper sa croissance, pour peut-être finalement régresser et mourir. Je n'aurai pas d'enfants. Pourquoi aimer quelqu'un pour lui laisser un héritage létal ?
Je ne me suis rendu compte de ma grande valeur que lorsqu'Il a commencé à engloutir nos vies, nos cœurs, et nos mœurs. Mais, hélas, Il m'a rendu égoïste. Moi qui, auparavant,
The One who knewOne day I visited the One who knew.The One who knew by Arkantia
Alone in Its den It was. Sleeping, listening, watching.
It could see and hear and feel and taste all there was in this world.
And ever and ever, It slept.
It had never lived a single second.
It only slept.
It was watching Its live going on,
For since the beginning It was living
And 'till the end it would be waiting.
It liked to see the dawn in the forest,
Smelling the sweet roses and violets,
Running with the deers, flying with the swallows,
Hunting with the wolves and living with the men.
It told me Its life was fated to loneliness,
For It could not move.
I was the only one It had spoken to since ages,
The only one It would talk to for centuries,
And for that It thanked me.
It wasn't a man nor an animal.
It wasn't even really living.
It was never really born and would never really die,
Bound to Its den forever.
So melancholic It was,
It watched the time pass by,
Bringing death and mourning to the living,
Bringing only mourning to the One who knew.
your words drip with crimson
as you bite your lip;
you always liked to pretend
you held the strength of metal,
and now all that’s left is the aftertaste of copper
trickling down your throat-
what happened to the child throwing pennies in the fountain?
hidden under the threaded sleeves of your sweater,
I can picture your hands shaking like earthquakes
and your fists held clenched;
I worry your fingernails cut dashed lines
into the palms of your hands,
like the ones painted on back roads and highways-
I’m worried where you plan on going
viewing your puffy eyes and hearing woebegone-winded words
tangle on your trainwrecked-tongue,
I can’t help but wonder how many puddles of salt
soak your sodden pillowcase from sleepless nights;
I know you’ve always liked to swim,
but this time darling- can you leave the water in the ocean?
I bet there’s charcoal clouds
gathering on your bed sheets-
an aftermath of the fire burning