Streams of Life

gods awake at the call of the silver horn

the stars burst and form new creation

darkness runs before the stellar brilliance

I want to see my goddess in her glory

rebuilding what was lost

rewriting the book of life

the light and haze

the night and brightness

all anew

all reborn

eternal spring sprading veils of leaves

the bars and shackles, all fade and crack

the glaring dream of youth

enters the veins of the world

running through the heart

filling the core with juvenile rivulets

washing the earth clean

giving new hope

Chosen One

The huntress of the stars, Artemis’ beloved

a bow in one hand, a dagger in the other

the moon on the lids, the sun in the heart

ghost of the forest, tracks the traces of lost souls

I Would Like

I would like one straight path, the end of which is clearly visible.

I wish there were no metaphorical trees on the horizon behind which a life smolders, which I may or may not choose.

I would like to reach my destination without bruises, wounds and bumps that I later recall with pain.

I wish… but sometimes what we want is impossible. Or it is not what we need.

Sometimes it is worth relying on the unknown, But why another scar doesn’t heal?

Happiness Hunter

I became the chaser of dreams, the hunter of joy. My life becomes lighter than void when I pursue the wild wind of change.

Maybe I can find peace, maybe I can find pure happiness. Sometimes the will moves the planets and bends limitless sky.

My will will bend the future. My will untamed and unbroken.


Who is the best ever? Who, who?

This lady!

This gurl rules whole galaxy and I follow her, even if she proabably leaves me for death.

All in the name of survival, of course. Nothing personal.

Fit, fit

Not eating. One day. Two. Sixth day only on water… and beer.

It’s maybe not the best way of spending few first days of the year, but how well it prognoses for my Year of the Fit Mal.

Happy Hogswatch!


Terry Pratchett, “Hogfather”

Happy Hogswatch, fairy folk! May the 24th be with you.

For a bit Hoggy atmosphere, a bit Halloweenish tale :> I am the Grim Mal, you remembered, hmm?

Glass Eye

Teatime was sitting alone. He was always sitting alone. There was no adept who would like to be friends with him, they didn’t even want to even approach him. The tight lampshade formed around him, a bubble, through which no student could pass. The more mature ones knew that this boy shouldn’t be in the Guild. Younger ones also knew it, but subconsciously. Nobody ever told them what was wrong with Teatime.

Teatime was standing over the cat. The cat was not in the best condition. It just burned. Soon the pedagogical body will appear and of course, it will cover it up. It wasn’t the first time, rather… eighth? The cats looked hilarious, burning. He was surprised that others didn’t find anything funny about it.


It was a normal day. The day when he lost his eye. The young adept, a kid still, mocked Teatime. And Teatime was like a fury, like an angry natural element. They knew that no one should approach him, but the adept wanted to have fun at his expense. Teatime started to bite. He was small and agile, smaller than other boys, but he knew WHERE to bite, in addition to his education in the Assassins’ Guild. He bit deeply until the adept bled. And with skill, as if he had done it before. And now Teatime didn’t have an eye. He won’t have it for quite long.


Time pours in an hourglass. Another spring. Another summer, lush, beautiful. Autumn. And winter, spirited, cold. Teatime is no longer a child. He’s devising plans. Relaxes, enjoying the future inhumations. He knows that he mastered his assassin’s skill. How can someone who loves what he does, not do it right?


This ball, the fake eye. The Unseen Academy student told him it wouldn’t do anything as long as he didn’t poke it too often. And, surely, if that other student didn’t come up with the idea that it could be magical, Teatime wouldn’t be interested in it. But now he sees. Clearly. The eyes of the adepts run away somewhere far away. Again.


The first serious commission. Already after graduation. Dreaming about blood, dreaming about killing. Dreaming about the small letters that make up his name in the hall of the most famous assassins. Not Jonathan. Someone better, someone else. What about the sleds? It must be the Hogfather…


His body is lying on the floor. He can’t believe he is dead. And the tentacles of the unknown world, to which he goes, reach him, try to mute, the world looks devastated and destroyed, the red sun grows bigger the longer he looks at it, the deserts look abandoned but the monsters are looking at him from under the huge monoliths. And he doesn’t like this world. He doesn’t like it at all.



Another spring. And summer, lush, beautiful. Autumn, all in yellow leaves. Finally, winter. But Teatime is gone. There is only a glass ball from a student of magic and emptiness in a place where once was someone. The small letters were written under a small trophy. But it isn’t the trophy he worked for.


The desert screams. The monsters hunt. The other world is breathing vermillion. Death walks under the red sun and ponders. Why humans are so unpredictable?

My Personal Frozen Passage

The dark icy passages, neverending halls, so vast that our eyes can’t embrace them whole, corridors of eternal frost.

And the chasms under our feet, deep, and dark, the freezing air enters our lungs… to petrify us, yet we still go forth, to reach the heart of this place, even if we know it will take aeons.

Paysage d’Hiver. Everytime I need cold landscape in my soul.


The sunset weeping

last breath of a dying day

night comes in black gown


Happiness. So rare. So alluring. But when reached, so easily overlooked and ignored.

And so fleeting. It’s small bits of happiness in the ocean of normal and bad.