Whispers and tortures

Lingering sadness

In a deep brown, a lure

A nervous deception

Hesitant touch

And mutual perception

This treachery feels pure

The path of enigma

Questions unanswered

An outcome unsure

Delectable passions

All too much

Yet in our fashion

We are cause

And cure

The Divide

There was a wish that floated around the thoughts of Ryzar. Fuelled by a fairytale and undying hope. He had reached the lowest rock which had no way of being crawled under so he let his mind go in to defining ideals. Short fantasies where triggered by an image of beauty, letting him escape from the gloom that was the make up of his existence. He held a photograph between trembling fingers and wished for the image to be real and an integral part of his life. That first desire would lead to another, then another until he had created a personified paradise.
The illusion was always dissolved by pain. His legs gave out a constant throb as the right side of his head pounded any chance of comfort. The medical world had no answers to his problem, he just had to sit it out and hope for better days. This he did, alone, willing the pain to stop without any success. Weeks dragged in to months with enough small improvements in his health to keep a will to live but living so long in pain was wearing down his psyche. As the body hinted at a return to well being his mind slowly dwindled in to oblivion. He had turned to alcohol, to unconsciousness and being totally disconnected from all except for the woman in the photograph. She stayed imprinted and omnipresent and was to be the one to bring him back to the land of the living.

Sacrifice

Neither pride nor shame motivated the murderer to voice his deeds. He wanted the world to understand the motives and to find at least one person who would care for him in his entirety. His acts had followed necessity but he had fallen short of the count. Four lives taken to save one. That was the deal but he had only taken three. So the one he had willed to save had perished as if to even a score.
His mother had told him the meaning of numbers. Three is life, four is death. Four had been requested but he had chosen life. He had taken the absence of the forth member as a sign and instead of hunting her down had let her live. By doing this the pact had been broken and fate had continued it's original path. The three he had killed had died without purpose turning his actions from saving a loved one to murdering the innocent.

Virgin Wreath

He walked through the hidden garden at dusk clipping a different flower from each bed. His prying eyes judged on shape alone as all colour was lost with the rising moon. His silent pace mingled with the shadows as he searched for symbols of sensuality and love. Petals were folded upon themselves, protecting from the darkening sky what they so openly offered to a glorious sun. Their velvet texture appeared black as blood, to the touch their soft cold surface aroused all the desires of a broken heart and projected the darkest of minds in to innocence. A path to discovery was going to be revealed in the depth of night. Yet it was only once the prize findings had been taken in to the intimacy of an illuminated home that they would reveal their true colours.

A Question Of Identity

At first view the star was invisible. He shook the picture dry then placed it in his inside pocket where it would stay for the weeks ahead. Always close to his heart when the weather was wet and cold.
One evening he sat on his bed writing when the need to view a dream overwhelmed him. He got up and fished out the photo. Gazing at it as he lay it on the bed next to his notebook. Laying down on the bed once more, he removed the cap from his pen, looked at lady love and wrote: I shall find you soon, and yes he did find her. Yet to this day he still doesn't know who she really is.

Build Them Up

The message said: The future is bright. An opportunity wrapped in love is waiting for you on distant shores. Ryzar's dreams were touching real. The heart had taken him to where he wanted to be. The disappointments of life were fading, the Sun was rising as were the eyebrows of his enemies. A promise was made and the cogs of a new life rolled in to motion and thus they all believed for a while that the dream was not a dream. It had become a certainty as they forgot that removing all doubt is the best way to prepare for annihilation.

Coma Whim

I heard the voice of reason wondering if you will ever rise from your slumber. Thinking back to the incident and trying to fill that void in your mind. Maybe you took a blow to the head and your friends are gathered around a hospital bed where you lay, holding your hand. That could be why the inexplicable happens around you on a daily basis. All those events that defy logic could be seeping in to your comatose mind. The more you think about it, the more that story fits.

The Birthplace

He ventured on to the web not knowing if he was spider or prey. Step by step he discovered that he could be either or he could be both. The world became smaller with each step yet any understanding of purpose still seemed to elude him. New friendships were seeded and old foes rediscovered all in preparation for his return to the birthplace. Blood had made contact and had bid his presence but he didn't feel ready. The mind was still unsettled and the body not fully repaired. He would just have to bluff his way through no mans' land and hope that destructive eyes wouldn't notice his weakness. Adapting to the tightening web while quickly working out if he was to be hunter or hunted. It was upon arrival that he discovered that he was to be neither.

Inbred Instinct

Blood ties can make you belong or rip your soul apart. We are simply educated that blood is thicker than water. Then we find that water is life and life is what is most precious. We see the world and shrink in fear as it seems so alien to our beliefs yet we are part of it all. Poverty and injustice define our right from wrong. Happiness is defined by a smile and a Hollywood moment. We fight with the world because we love it yet we can't seem to be able to define love. Some of us have all of the answers. Others know that some of us are wrong. We will kill for what is ours even after we realize it never was ours to start with. What we are are animals confused by our own intelligence. Too smart to consider ourselves as beasts yet not smart enough to realize that we are. It's all in the blood. From the first drop spilt to the latest genetically modified soul. Pushing desire in to reality and making reality become our dreams. Meanwhile each push of the pump is numbered.

What Mother Hides For Trees

Ryzar's mother was finishing her days in a mental institution where she spent her time talking about working for her father. In between folding pieces of paper in to a small phallus and manically flapping her legs open and shut she would describe the back room where she learned her trade. The room contained one bed, one bedside table and a jar of condoms (she liked to call it the killing jar). Those were the tools of her trade and she was good to. People travelled from all over to get a tailor made shirt from her father's shop before reclining to the back for tea and fellatio. One day the killing jar was empty and with a gold trinket and a smile Ryzar was conceived.

Trinity's Lust

The phone rang at midnight. Ryzar looked at it but didn't answer. It was probably a married woman in a middle age crisis or an old flame wanting a new spark. Either way he preferred to ignore the call. He was plugged in to a machine, searching for a soul and a remedy for pain. The phone stopped ringing and he started to wonder who it was, if he should of answered, maybe it was the call he had been hoping for and so another inner conflict began until the phone started ringing again. He looked at it and didn't answer.

Sword On The Scales

In this place even the butterfly is a blade. The sweetest thought is dressed in violence, blood lust is formed in infancy and the end is always a reason to wipe everything out. Hope circles survival as each and every one runs on instinct. The moral code is a variable and every thought pivots on the elimination of the other.
In this place peace cannot exist without war. Hate is defined as a form of love and everything you own defines who you are. In violence we breed, in violence we trust, in violence we become our own God.

Opening Night

The lights dipped, the curtain rose and a fluffy white rabbit hopped across the stage as curses and a top hat came from the wing. An old lady ran on to the planks fetching the hat as she pursued the rodent, then both disappeared behind the curtain. Laughter prevailed the empty stage then rumbled down to a male squeak near the back row. There were a few seconds of silence before the magician made his entrance. He strolled on gusting a wholehearted laugh before halting centre stage with his profile to the audience. There was a short cough before he introduced himself: ''I am Simon Ryzar! and I'm an alcoholic.''