You are that thought
Tarrying the back of my head,
An infinitesimal detail
In the periphery of my eyes
Giving meaning to everything

You sit inside my dreams
And incarcerate me
Inside my own body, my own soul
I wince and smile;
This is a beautful prison

Slumber isn’t within reach
But I do not want to fall asleep,
Your chains are my petals
Darling my warden, my prison

I won’t struggle, I promise

artreture | fato-profugus

fato-profugus | artreture

fato-profugus:

In Ice And Fire

Nails scrape the wooden door 
painfully scratching the veneer
Cut across neck 
and I’m choking in my blood
Fingers trembling on lap 
I’m keeping my repose and grace
The fires settle down 
to haul an avalanche
Throat croaks for help
begging for a warning 
Subtle gush of cold water 
I am drowning,
Kiss fresh wounds
drowning in your taste again

Ball-shaped holes 
I am punctured, ruptured
Decorate frustrates lungs
naked as a rubber tree 
Shoulders like frail branches 
heart like weary vines
Slump towards the floor 
blocking the doors
Give it all, give it a go 
give it emergency, give it succor
From smoke to fire 
until the ember hits the ground
From thirst to ice 
until I can no more feel your eyes
Hand the daggers 
and jeopardize me
Sing with the misery
I am agony

fato-profugus 
artreture

asphyxia

I’m drowning
In the leaky faucet of sentiment
And its weather-vane song
Immolates the night
In my brazen openness

Bottles lay by our feet
Lips cut with frequent kisses
And lies flung towards the moon
Our bed is our dust, our shiver

The taste of wound,
Like the petrichor and patina,
Enthuses me, bemuses me
What is vapid I these
Malignant trivialities?

Place your weary head
Upon my dead shoulders
In these calm shadows
We are separate prisons

I can pretend not to care
If the world laughs,
But I will cry my grief
If it would evoke your lies
I need your poison to be alive

- - -

artreture | fato-profugus

Unlit

The cold of her skin was sharp
It made bones softer than water
Her fingertips were flakey yellow
Eyes sunk deeper than the couch

There were noises in his ears
He didn’t know if it was more auspicios
Than the silence that roosted in his heart
His black lips sealed tight his cigarettes

The windows knew not of the sun
The moon hid itself under the tiles
She refused to wear slippers
Frost from the floor cut her toes

There is a room amidst the stars
Full of drunken darkness and oblivion
And he didn’t need to stray too far
To find this room and lose his soul

Her breath felt like sad fires
Blankets stained with saliva and ash
Her gaze was always at the door
Waiting for nothing, for nobody

His eyes were colorless storms
Tired from sleep and poetry
He stands with wuthering patience
Waiting for nothing, for nobody

- - -

artreturefato-profugus

(Source: arteture.com)

Playpen

fato-profugus:

Lose your mind
find your pulse
Trace the noise
suffocate your voice
Until the screams resonate
through the locquacious light
Feel me through nothing
and fill me with everything,
Everything is the void
the void is in anything
Sink your teeth in
to contention, to concord,
To bone, to skin
Holy to sin,
Gun to head,
Tongue to blood,
Bullet to mouth;
Big guns and daffodils,
Marrionettes and dice –
Limitless, we are limitless!
The playpen is alive


Collaboration by:
Artreure
Fato-profugus

fato-profugus:

I asked the moon
“Why does my chest
Feel heavy?”
It shone its light
Upon my heart
But this only
Irked me more
“So? It is just
One heart.
Why does it feel
As if the world
Lives in me,
As if I on my own
Isn’t burden enough?”
It kept its light
Still on my heart
And it said
“It is not
Just one heart
But a chest
That can hold another.
Wouldn’t it be nice
To know that
We feel burdened
Because we carry
A piece of someonelse
Inside all that
We thought was just us?”
I kept still as the moon
Went on,
“It feels as heavy
As the world
Because we feel deeply
For the small things
That matter most.”

I listened to you
conversing to a bleak moon
quivering into thousand replicas
at my tepid coffee cup
and I watched your skin 
peel off the pallor
of gnawing darkness
as you toss your sighs,
heap by heap
in a lambent lambaste
And I watched the moon
elude us in its grace
because we are tired,
and hapless, and weak
that we love to dream
asleep or awake;
that we neglect 
the grievance behind
the pale gregarious moon,
that these little slivers
we carry in our hearts
lacerates us,
feeds on our blood,
deforms us,
reduce us –
but in the light 
of oblivious selflessness
we forge dreams
and these little slivers
burn to massive stars
and paints a galaxy
in the blackhole
of our hearts
But for now, let us collect
more dream dusts
in this harrying avenue
of furloughs
and wrinkled constellations.

Collaboration by:
Artreture
Fato-profugus

Anonymous said: like a taraxacum, light and pure/ it flew with happiness and cure/ loved and appreciated by few/ they are the ones who truly knew/as sharp as the lion’s tooth/it can kill a hundred one and two/ like the wild and gentle fleur / flew together with the wind and dew.

dispersed into the breeze
the air is but calm and at ease
the gestures of the sand
coil and tickle my rough hands
as the lightness of day
come to a close with a sway
with the gentleness of a touch
that says just about enough -
I’m blind, but this is my vision
you are the tranquil sea in this confusion

fato-profugus:

Corners with drooping shoulders
Hide and seek with sinful lips
Pray tell for time to wear a cape

In the fading sun we run
like dust motes, like memories
we fall like rain over
 and empty land

The alcohol in my blood cries
For more, for more; come dosage

The smoke beside my heart cries
tall as cathedrals with lonely bells


Laying on train tracks where
We used to sit to watch the sun

Lingering in vacant vestibules
where the sunset would not find


I can smell the rust, the water’s dry
Every blanket’s occupied in bed
It’s frozen outside, there’s no light

I smell torn papers like crumpled petals,
sometimes we break from safety
the winter bled out for me

artreture | fato-profugus

The Oasis
(excerpt from onemeanderinglion’s piece,
"The Unfinished Beginning I - The Last of May)

To our backyard, past the laundry line and the solitary cherry tree, is a big rock from which you can stand on to climb the white rain-washed wooden fence. Behind the fence, you can follow path beside the willowy stream that leads to the woods, and in the womb of the thick foliage are many wonders. These plethora of wonders included a number of birds with different haunting and eerie songs and flamboyant colours, apple trees with the most inebriating saccharine fruits and a bald, open space enclosed by minty scents of pine trees under the colossal summer sky – this was our favorite place.

After a few remembered strides against the flow of the slim rivulet, Syd and I found our favorite place. Under the gilded clouds from where the sun was seething with the gloating violins of the cicadas, Syd and I sat ourselves on moss-clad boulders that towered at epicenter of nature’s abberance. 

“What now?” I asked her and expected to hear her whine of the heat.

“I think the summer is lifting.” She said in a somber timbre. It was never too hot in this place, except for this summer. And now, the last of May is coming, roving above us shyly hidden behind the nimbus clouds.

“It’s almost June.” 

“But we haven’t done anything monumental!” She shrieked and a number of birds were sent to a startled flight. I laughed at the cinematic effect.

“Shut up!” She said mocking my jeer.

“We, especially I, have turned these woods upside down, Syd. We’re getting tired.” 

The scholars and the scientists said that this be the time that crucial changes should happen to a person. Syd’s friends were starting to paint their nails and lips, her cousin Joey demands with an annoying reiteration and persistence to be called by her real name: Georgia, and most of them started acting queer and giggling around boys. My friends too were starting to behave condescendingly around girls and were starting to take interest with sports and even cars. Whilst here we are, finding snakeholes and foxholes and naming red cardinals.

“Yes. Perhaps.” Syd was no younger from her group but she chose to be defiant to the foolishness that every girl undergoes. 

“Have anything in mind?” I asked her. 

“What was the word that you gave me?” She asked off tangent and sometimes she was queerer than most of her friends.

“Picaresque?”

“Yes. Picaresque. I’m losing it, aren’t I? Does it comes with youth?” There was a gloom upon her eyes that it looked as though she was looking at the tangible lifting of summer. She talked about youth as though she were an old soul, but her small, lissome silhouette could never talk more for her.

“I don’t think so. Youth contributes to it, but I’ve read a lot of books with women who remain to be exciting and zealous.” I told her and she faintly smiled then released a sigh.

“It’s funny how you talk about youth like you know it, Zac.”

“I’m bookish is all.” I tried not to laugh, she can be prissy about her maturity lately.

A serene silence ensued titivated by the distant and mellow songs of canaries and zephyrs gossiping vulgarly, for a moment, youth sauntered between us then sat and on the third boulder between Sydney and I to tarry. The three of us, in silence, were all contemplating on what to do before the summer leaves our horizon.

“Hmm… The last of May.” She said in a special tone that gravitates your concern to her appeasal – a tone that made you lean close enough to linger on her balmy scent.

“The last of May.” I crooned with her.

~ prose: onemeanderinglion | sketch: artreture

(Source: artreture)

Silently

I was away from sleep
Like a paper boat on concrete

Standing atop the lights
The wind sift through the blight

Their cares resembled mine;
Flimsy, almost lesser a dime

There is a shy beauty -
Remain the way you are

Did you speak of a page
Torn from a familiar book?

Stay away from the clangor
Of this perfidious story

I bury my head
In the light of this lamp post

Quelling the flames
That sweltered the wings of hope

Swimming in dream and sea
I stifle at the woe in my throat

Like a moonshine veiled in clouds
I’ll preserve its memory

~ artreture | onemeanderinglion

(Source: artreture)

Blue, Gray, Etc.

Wandering, slowly searching
Of a sign to make it out
Live to tell the tale
With a splintered pen

Words thrashed, hearts denied
I cried for silence and honesty
And the inner turmoil
Begged for more lies

He was just like her
Running away from loneliness
He felt blue, so did she
But in a shade of gray

Everyday felt like Monday
As time unspools its threads
In elegant monotony
They ran and chase

In a daydream I imagined
I smelled close victory
Fingers idle, hands trembling
Without maps, the end is a lie

The city dusk sinks in all horizon
And the stride never sojourn
Until sadness is a company
In lieu of a memory, etcetera, etcetera

~ artreture | onemeanderinglion

Welcoming this place of sorrow,
I glance at the imperfections of my soul,
Fueling the conventions of this atmosphere,
And stroking a fixture of narcissism

As I wait for this caution of doubt,
I slumber on the road to conform,
And see a senseless past of altercations,
Clustering my cognition in an enclosed path

The vase of memory has my intricate hairs
That witnessed terror, hormone and lesions;
A map to the broken surface of the sun
Judgements wear us like a glove, hope is out

It’s beautiful, we’ve reached a new low
Arrows shoot from down under, my eyes are red
I am belittled by contretemps, enticed is I
Spar with your feelings now as I strangle mine

~ artreture | itsjustnotthatbasic

Welcome

Tomorrow waved at you
With enthusing lightness
But it ebbed with an inertia
That a trap door conceals

The door yawns
With a frantic light seeping
Its ajar lips

Its tinsel obstructed
By a shapeless weight, so you
Hesitated and lingered

The future is either
Too bright or too dark
And the vagueness either
Put or takes away the thrill 

Trekking silences in hills
Breaking clocks from its ticks,
The door is open
But you refuse to take a step

Into the light
They say, hymns have sung them
But cold feet stay put

Like the sun that sets
You’ve no power over such
Mysteries and forgotten tales
That narrate our foolish choices

Descending into an avalanche
Of distraction and destruction,
The home of all that wanders;
Welcome to the void

~ artreture | onemeanderinglion

onemeanderinglion:

Glinting city windows dance
To the music of falling rain
But from this side of the window
There is no downpour of home
Just dancing stoplights
And rushing strangers on trains

I miss the verve in our old town,
how your zesty laugh and chatter
fill in the pallid sky, no, hold on,
it is the pallid sky and sunsets I miss
because they hold your lingering
voice of honey even when our lean 
and flamboyant talks started to cease


I still think of you and your hair
Soaked with my thoughts of sun
And cerulean skies of Sunday
Seated on your favorite stool
You crease your floral dress
The moonlight bouncing off
Porcelain skin my mind chases

And I rupture my clouds of rain
in these taciturn reveries,
miles and miles away from your
memories – memories alone
of your agape eyes and dense lips
and in this place, it never really rains


Heaven makes me miserable
Misery of you is my salty breeze
The dust makes my lungs hurt
I ache for your breaths

I ache for your footsteps
and the  ardent warmth around you,
the erratic hands of the clock 
whenever you’re around
Isn’t it funny how distance
brought me back to your realms?


I hope to drown your evidences
With every mug of strong coffee
And meetings with cigarettes
Tonight in these strange seas
And dusty sepia cities
The scent of your black hair
Spreads throughout me like waves
Beneath this knowing moon
I shall sleep with your ghost

~ artretureonemeanderinglion

(Source: fato-profugus)