The Servant's Whisper by Enma

I am loyal

 that's what he thinks

for what he says I follow

for what he thinks I please

'cause someday I know he'll be finished

i serve my whole life for him

for i am already dead

but breathing

i wasted my time for the person

who ruined my whole life

i protect

i care

for the man I HATE

I smile

i thank for my worst nightmare

'cause HE is my MASTER

and

i am his SLAVE

I'd always taught him

things i don't want to learn

i'm always with him

not for the concern

 but the reason

i know

soon

i will kill him

i will kill every person

who's against him

i'd always kept him safe

the man who took my everything

i put my love to him

'cause i know someday

he will bend his own knee in front of me

i'll always be at his side down to his last breath

 seeing my sword and him both bleeding

and before he closed

his eyes forever kept him asleep

 i'm going to tell him a bedtime story

 'bout a young boy

crying beside

his bloodless parents

SWEARING TO TAKE REVENGE. . .

Ride the Wings of Redemption by Telle

·        
She is a dove trying to conquer the sky.
Her nest the icy cold of earth's embrace.
The light of autumn wishes her flight well.
But she wanted to stop the worthy race.

Against herself.
Her eyes are the loneliest star gracing the sky.
Against herself.
Her wings a pair frail to spread and fly.

She cast all doubts to the sky, forming clouds.
Just to fly into them, a growing pain.
If it'd fall like rain, her nest would not warm her.
Perhaps the life she has is ashes to remain.

Her wings are broken from the fall.
If I have the chance I'd come to the rescue.
And restore this winged creature of tears and broken hopes.
Now I know just what to do.

I became the nest to give her the embrace.
The light of autumn to guide her flight.
Look into her starry eyes to know who she is.
And tell her to fly she has the right.

A thousand miles she thought she could never cover.
For hesitation holds her mending wings.
The wind of life shall blow to stop her.
But if again she falls, on the ground I'll be waiting.

This is redemption beyond flight.
Her savior stands aground.
Behind the broken wings there's purity.
Beating for life for her I found.

Manipulasyon ng Utak ni Telle

• ·  

  
  Ikaw na nag
  
  ma ni
  pula
  
  ng
  sali
  ta
  u(pang)
  dima
  ka pag
  dala ng
  kahu
  
  lu
  gan.

  
  

The Ultimate blasphemy By Telle

Neither God nor Satan

Created this world

and held the power

after gold

Some people would think that equating God with Satan is sure blasphemy. But how about the blasphemy that can be done in poetry? Poetry is most of the time figurative, so accusing the author of trying to be literal in a verse is a stereotype we must get away from. They suffer from censorship pure and simple. If the majority tries to tell the poet to change the verse because it does not suit their 'religious' or philosophical taste, they are violating the author's freedom-- much like holding press captive. If the poet have in to the whim of the majority, he becomes a sell out to them. Yes, he may gain fame, but in the end, he sacrifices his convictions and principle. Fame is just a question of being favorable.

When a writer finds himself in a dilemma, he is caught between himself and the collective. Choosing the collective is like deciding to do business with them. But no learning is achieved when we, the writers, say yes to the collective. If we sell ideas to them, the reactions would be a yes, no and 'wait, that's something else'. There is no growth on the side of the reader when he says yes. They already know those things so they would not bother to scrutinize the idea: but still, other mainstream writers offer mainstream ideas to keep their names 'mainstream'. That is the anatomy of being a sell out. A no, on the other hand, reflects only one thing and that is the passivity of the reader; his mind would not grasp the new idea. Perhaps, due to the shackle of mainstream market, he is preoccupied with the prevailing notions that is why he would not process new ones. The 'wait, that is something else' is an intellectual answer to the 'no' part. Because he scrutinized ideas, he would give time to examine a text, understand it, make it his own(or reject it) and in the end, the written words serve their purpose.

This is the case of the verse above mentioned. It suffered censorship from the religious bigots who think in literal terms. But try to examine the verse and a multitude of meaning will arise. First, the polarity of God and Satan may be questioned: no one equates God with the Devil. But what does the word God imply? Purity, justice, good, holiness and sanctity. But one can also draw implications such as restrictions and laws. God and all that He implies may draw a conclusion that in order to achieve freedom, one must be permitted to do something. On the other hand, Satan implies corruption, injustice, evil, vile and death. But he could also symbolize hedonism: a form of freedom. See the contrast? Restriction and freedom. Neither restriction nor freedom creates this world because they both shape all the affairs that make man move. And to achieve the power to grant freedom, one must have gold: treasure. No power in this world is not shaped by gold. But this is just my take; let the purity of its meaning solely to its author and the interpretation to the wise reader. Most especially to the reader whose mind dictates his yes, no and 'wait, it is something else'.

The reader's reaction upon a text reflects his intellectual level and understanding. Acceptance of words in literal level is a proof that a man does his thinking in a shallow way; preferring God and Satan to be. . . Literally God and Satan. The metaphor fails to serve the purpose. Perhaps, ignorance is founded on two ideas: the absence of initiative to think and playing with words on literal level. The crime most of the time is not upon the writer but upon the reader. They become neither God nor Satan, preferring the passive way.

But on the part of the writer, being questioned is better than being accepted or rejected. He does his job well by stirring the mind of the reader, and he provokes a discussion. Again, this is the concept of 'wait! it is something else'. There is neither controversial nor questionable article, just people who could neither accept nor analyze something. They become gods in imposing their sets of right and wrong but at the same time, a satan to the writer.

The writer, in all his honest judgment and integrity must keep a firm feet upon his ground, or else, when the torrent of rain-- or the whim of the collective-- swept over him, he would be washed away. One more thing: only dead fish swim with the current.

poetic force: a contribution

Neither Nor

By Inno

Neither God nor Satan

Creates this elusive world

And holds power

After gold.

Neither heaven nor hell

Strengthened a thousand reason

To see the moon crying

And turn those tears into sand.

Neither Good nor Bad

Can explain the purity of innocence

And hang it on the silent crime

For them to break the fragile sound.

Neither white nor black

Can paint the flawless wind

And draw one sky

To clearly color the high above.

Broken Piano

By Inno

All I want is to play this music with you forever

And nothing’s dimmer to surrender

But I’m awake to the music that gives undefined sight

To hear the pain under the night.

Farewell my friend

For you are the greatest song ever played

Like an angel wh’s watching me

And lead this heart of mine

To the path of your glorious dream

There’s a broken piano between us

And key to unlock our broken heart

For us to hear the tune of love

And fell the purity of kindness

Just between you and me

Who gave this music of time?

And sang “goodbye to the lonely me”–

Its end to our souls.

The Blood: last drop

By Vie

In the child’s eye of innocence

Witnesses the reign of fire

Bombs exploded, bombs everywhere

People screaming for help

They’re fighting for what they think is right

Even taking away one’s life

Not afraid of holding guns

Lifeless body anywhere

River of blood flows like water

Houses burning, hopes burning

Hands trying to reach for peace

Sweet laughter would never be heard

Does it have an ending

Or it would last till theblood last drop

Blue sky would never be seen.

Even light shines red in morning

The Black Rose (A symphonic Gothic Romance) by Telle

Along the path of roses black as night,
walked beauty, her beauty and things despite.
I'll hold your hand forevermore, my love.
Your lovely promise, etched at heart, I have.

Walking, approaching she’s to the oaken door,
I would hold her hand so she would not scour.
For if I lost all grip, grasp to reality,
the tears in my eyes would bring forth clarity.

She is a black rose; she is my black rose.

I held the black rose in my hand.

Piercing, it’s thorn bury itself into my veins.

Bleeding, still am bleeding I hold

‘Cause the better future for us’d unfold.

She is a black rose; she is my black rose.

Open the door, cathedral benighted.
To the altar she walked, my heart swayed.
I look at my beautiful, damned bethroted.
The dark sky, though childish, black God painted.

Walking, approaching, to the oaken altars,
She looked at me waiting, i forced a smile.
For if I unveil the frown: times to come,
"I love you" (a curse) would not be worthwhile.

I held the black rose in my hand.
Piercing lovingly, its thorn I would kiss.
For if I sleep for a second,
a precious, ever, moment I would miss.

She is a black rose; she is my black rose.

This
wedding
is not
meant to be
this black hearts
ne'er meet
eternity.

Stained glass and crucifix.
Black candles and its light.
Spectators all gaping,
saying "this isn't right."
for darkness and darkness
Shall not bring for light,
only heartache and tears
and all that, evil, might.
The priest would not bless
nor read a line from the Script.
He would not let this lest
to hell he'd too weep
tears fall from her eyes
i too would weep soon.
I plead bless this wedding
under the bleeding moon.

So, along the aisle of tears and heartache,

Beauty and tears are about to be wedd’d.

If I hold your hand me you’d ne’er let go:

I’d run away to save what you bestow’d.

I'm running out of the oaken door.
i'll save my black rose from being crumpled.
For this love so strong would and will save her,
Even tho both our worlds to the ground crumbled.

I let go of th’rose from my hand.
Musing, I walked to a crystalline lake.
The shining red moon guides the land
even tho mine would break.

Like Narcissus i look.
to the water, shimmering,
I’m sitting there for hours
merely contemplating.
For before me, reflected
as tho it were to mock
i too am a she
a weeping rose black.

Raven-black Tree By Telle

It was a tree that stood in solitude atop a hill where silence in form of gray mist hang; the fog seemed to carry all the cries the whole human race had let out: it was a cold and desolate cloud enshrouding a one-tree hill. No other life was to be found there. The grass that struggled to raise its fingers to the sky was impeded and killed at the moment of their conception by an unknown force. The tree stood like a victor as it cast a deathly shadow upon the sterile hill. The tree itself, towering is if it wanted to reach the sky, was as black as night. It was a skeleton of a time long past. A monument of a glorious and chthonic part. But it stood, as persistent as the red moon that guarded it at night, as if it was pointing its fingers accusingly to the sky. It was like a cross to mark someone else's grave. The wind was persistent in its journey toward the unknown. Had the tree--lonely and alone--been clothed with leaves, it would have swayed to the cadence of the mountain's breath. But it did not have leaves to begin with. The only thing that swayed on that dead tree was a noose. The rope was tied to the seemingly strongest branch, its end formed to serve as the most grin of all execution device. The cold symphony of the misty wind was the only mark to indicate that time was still affecting the quiet hill.

Through the mist, a young girl as comely as a blooming rose was passing. The countenance conveyed the purity of her heart. She was a small girl for her age. The face, framed by a neatly cut hair the color of the blackest night, was a canvass for the curious and intelligent eyes, a small nose and a mouth that held all the inertia of mystery and pulchritude. She was known for her mildness, her fragility and curiosity. A typical young lady who would partake on a caucus around a camp fire. Well, she was, in her own way, a girl around a camp fire.

She eventually saw the foreboding that was the raven-black tree. At first, the tree was, for her, a crack upon the white mist, a rift upon the sky. But as her steps progressed, as she approached, the place was revealed to her. It was indeed a funereal tree of whose grave she did not know. She knew of the infamy the tree had. She grew up with the people who feared it. Why? Why would they fear it? It was just a dead chunk of wood! She did not fear the tree. The girl who made the place a temporary refuge came back there again and again. It was always misty whenever she came. She felt hidden from the rest of the world. She would sit on its roots and contemplate on the tree's being there for hours on end. She would look at the noose and wondered who would have used it to kill himself. The question would always taunt her, interest her to no avail. She would also wonder why the townspeople would let the lifeless tree alone. As it was. Don't they care? Was she the only one who had the liberty to ask questions? To--as the other people would say--blaspheme? She would ask her mother what that tree was doing there. Why it was feared. The old lady would scold her for being inquisitive and admonish her. She would be told to drop the matter off. And never to go there anymore. She became silent but the questions remained. The girl asked other townspeople, creating theories as she went on. Maybe someone who was in despair committed suicide there. But upon telling them what she was doing there, they would tell her, just like what her mother told her, to never return to that place again. The raven-black tree was cursed. It would drive her insane, or kill her, if she would keep on going there. This remark made a big impression on her; this only strengthened her desire to go back. Nothing could stop her, even the ghastliness of the place. Even the cloudy foreboding that descended and eventually veiled the place. The tree standing in the middle of that hill became a symbol of her inquiry.

The town wherein she lived was never to prosper; it was, as the old fellows said, the curse of the raven tree. Why? Again, she was not told. She was only forbidden to utter anything concerning the tree; otherwise another curse upon them should befall. The history of that malefaction, the tree, the one who committed suicide there would not be disclosed. It would remain a mystery. They just believed that via tree was powerful to cast a curse of perdition upon its blasphemer. No words were uttered against the infamous tree. Upon observing those she asked, she noticed that they conveyed ad nauseum a kind of reverence upon the tree. The tree with its concealed part was left alone amid the fog. No one ever dared to go there.

When night fell, the villagers shut their houses tightly lest something--a progeny of darkness, they reckoned--would enter the house and kill them all; the practice was reminiscent of Egypt back in the Mosaic times. The wind would blow and shake the roofs of windows slightly. Fear was with them as they suppered and eventually went to sleep. The girl did not share the prevailing atmosphere. In fact, she was growing more curious. If given a chance she would open a door or a window, to have a peek outside.

That morning, she decided once more to visit the forlorn place. She touched the dead bark, feeling its roughness; it made her skin infantile in comparison. Her touch lowered until it reached a cavity. Something was telling her to plunge her hand into that hole. And she did. Her trembling hand explored the hole. She was like an inexperienced spelunker in search of a hidden treasure. She jerked her hand to the other direction. Nothing. To the other direction. Noth-- she gasped. There was something that greeted her skin; it was like a smite of a cold air from another world. She grasped the object and extracted it from the hole: a leather-bound pocketbook. The wind, with its symphony, continued to blow, swaying the noose and her hair frantically. The mist-veiled hill seemed to warn her against opening the book. She remained standing on the foot of the dead tree; she was deciding whether to unravel the book's content or let it be. She opened it.

The book's content was let out like a dam breaking before her eyes. It answered all the questions she was shouldering: about the tree, the noose, the past, the fear. In her mind was the fog dispersing. According to the book, there was once a witch whose description was not given-- she had to rely on the stereotypical appearance of one-- who disseminated fear upon the village. The witch was a one-woman army victorious upon her mission. The villagers lived in fear for far too long. No one rose to defy the supernatural ability of the said scoundrel. It was an irrational fear deemed rational by irrationality. Man fears death: this the witch used to manipulate the village people. But one man stood up to end that reign of darkness; he persuaded the others to rise up and end this crow-black tyranny. It was strength in number against a demonic art. They vanquished the evil incarnate and hanged her on that tall tree; but before the execution occurred, the old witch cast a curse upon the row of pitchfork and torch: the rustic place would be relentlessly beaten by storms every now and then, the fog would haunt them like the howling of wolves, a specter would fly every night in search of human flesh, and the utterance of her story would bring a curse. The tree that once bore leaves died when the witch's breath of life left her. It was a nightmare to remember. It was a nightmare to forget.

It was a legend according to the book; it was a myth studded with sheer mendacity and exaggerated by fear. It was a hearsay nevertheless. A gossip opted to be believed by people who could not think for and by themselves. The shame! she thought. Evidences gathered by the writer of that book led to the contradiction of such an absurd tale. At the tree she looked. In her eyes grew indignation-- a righteous anger for her townsfolks. She cursed the tree for bringing fear to her fellow townspeople. Now, the time had come to liberate them from such foolishness. With that book in her hands, she strongly believed that that naïve people would take her word.

She ran swiftly towards town; her feet were given a surge of juvenile energy to fulfill a task. Through the sulky vapor and fields of leaflers trees she darted. Liberation was tightly clasp upon her hand, and she wanted to impart that freedom she had found to the folklore-chained dwellers of that dismal town. When she reached the town, she screamed despite her gasping for air: "All that you believed in all your life is a lie! It's all a lie! You're just deceiving yourselves!"

They stopped walking, talking and working. Their collective and scrutinizing eyes were focused upon the young girl. Each and all eyes wondering. An old man approached her, his eyes although softly alarmed was inquisitive. "What's the problem, child?" His hoarse voice blared through the fog. That kid he recognized was the daughter of the weaver; he knew that the child was a gentle soul. He saw her eyes: eager, naïve but inquisitive.

"The hill. . . The tree!" And all the words of veracity poured out from her mouth. She narrated with vigor the story behind the accursed tree, unravelled the truth about the fear that consumed them all; the fear that they devoutedly regarded. The urgency was in her voice. The need to free her fellow villagers overflowing.

But as she related her tale, the anger in the old man's face began to form and rise. He was horrified. Enraged. He seized the young girl by the hand, shook it and shouted at her. "What did you-- Do you know what you've done?!?!"

Incredulous, she looked at the old man shaking her. When she recovered, she tried shaking herself from the man's tenacious grasp. But her efforts to tear herself from the old man's grip was in vain. The man continued his harassing, his asking, but she did not want-- and ultimately could not-- answer the questions. Slowly, like the cold embracing the land, her heart was gripped with fear. Tears welled from her comely eyes-- eyes that could magnify the most minute of all her emotions.

"What have you done, you foolish child! Do you know?! Do you--"

At last, with a vicious heave, she managed to free herself from the man's anger. Her mind was as misty as the frigid air; she could not think. Fear and confusion overwhelmed her. What did I do wrong? this echoed in her mind. What? The backward step she made was an initiative to find and retreat to an unknown comfort. She must run! She must hide! What did I do wrong? With all the strength she could muster, she looked at the face of the old man; she realized that that one countenance was also the collective faces of all those who dwell in fear. Dwellers of the shadow. She became the object of humiliation. The ignominy incarnate about to sentenced of being banished. She must run! She must hide! The hand was about to get her again. She felt as though it were a snake about to bite her. She must run. She must hide. Mustering all the feminine and childlike strength left in her she scrambled once again through the mist towards the veiled comfort of the cold.

---

The wind blew harder. The fog seemed to grow thicker and more dismal than ever before. The sun seemed to have betrayed them. But the curse had not befallen yet. However, despite this, some people talked about its impending arrival. They feared, and the fear was enough to drive them crazy.

"It was always like this. We would like peacefully without any worries as long as we consecrate the tree until a girl with a preposterous idea would come to distort our way of living," that same old man said..

"I know. I'd rather obey the tradition than to risk my neck saying something wretched about it." One would say. "Besides, the tree has taken many lives. If it couldn't be attributed to it, I don't know what is."

·         They were afraid that via more "innocent" minds would be affected by the discovery. They were afraid that all the things they know, all the things they believed in--all the things they reverently feared-- would be questioned and ultimately alter their their ways of life. They feared the tree and dared not to go near it. As long as the wolves howled at the moon-- wishing for its lunar guidance-- they would believe that it was the voice of the tree. As long as the nocturnal rustles and noises existed when darkness fell, they would believe that they were the witchcraft of the tree. As long as the fog hang ominously, they would think that chaos would stretch its arms and wipe them off the face of the earth with the most sickening notion of pestilence. The dusk would come with the darkness it conceives and the dawn and the light with which it deceives, and between those two they would live in false fear forevermore. The girl saw all of these and more. She was an anathema from that point on. A blasphemer to a persistent belief. A victim of traditions. But on the other hand, she liberated herself from the curse of the raven-black tree. With no second thought, she poured the gasoline on its roots and struck a match. The fire, which the thickest of damp mist could not fight off, rose to the sky. The fingers that accusingly pointed to heaven was devoured by flames of fire.

Yes. It "was" a tree that stood in solitude atop a hill where silence in form of gray mist hang. The fog that seemed to carry all the cries of the whole human race had let out rose with the smoke of a once infamous tree that scared a whole village-worth of fools.