Unveiling the Haunting Journey of Carcosa: A Poem That Blurs the Lines Between Reality and Memory

Peering into a shattered world where echoes once thundered but now lie silent, this poem pulls you deep into a realm of crumbled gilded halls and lost veils. It’s as if lovers, fools, and seers alike have waltzed through cycles of illusion—only to find themselves stranded amidst peeling walls and blackened memories. Ever wonder what secrets are hidden beneath the surface of those fading paintings, what scratches in memory they might reveal if only we dared to scrape the canvas? The metaphor of a headless bishop, caught between dreams melting away and daylight’s harsh ascent, lingers like a haunting whisper. It’s a curious contemplation on the fragility of faith, the chaos of randomness, and the silent curses that stitch our lives in mysterious ways. You don’t just read these lines—you wander into a labyrinth of reflections, where every phrase challenges your very perception. Care to dive deeper into this poetic enigma? LEARN MORE

The Echoing Yell Laid Low,
All Once Guilded Now Rubble,
In Scorn Of Lovers Guided By None OutSide,
Fools And Their Circles OverHead For Halos And Lost Veils,
With UnderWater Kingdoms Washed AWay,
To Where Be The Intended For Seers To Pierce,
In The Rounding Of The Desolate Crawl,
Played As Cards UpOn The Revolving Door,
InTo HallWays Where Blackened Paintings Hang,
Not Hidden By Soot… No… To Scrape One’s FingerNail Across Canvas
Will Reveal…
…
A Scratch Made InTo Memory’s Delicate Shade,
Where That Mark Might Be Further Widened,
And To Peer InTo Its Distended Window…
…
…
Never The Emptying Vessel For Wanting An Audience,
A Jar WithIn A Field WithIn A Negative Lock,
Under Spells For Killing The King With Randomness,
Lay’d As Dominoes UpOn The Painted Floor,
InTo Walls Peeling From Near Once Sainthood Sang,
Caught Forbidden By Set Pieces…
…
No Pipeings To Mete Forwards To Scruples,
Done Only With Its Singer’s Curse,
Whose Voice Not Be As Tattered As Its Vestige,
Vascular And Frozen In Claustrophobeic Implications…
…
It Stitches Nine UpOn One’s Lives,
And Leaves All SpeechLess By The Opening Scene…
…
…
Can That Only Be What The HeadLess Bishop Wishes For (?)
As DayLight Ascends And His Dreams Melt AWay?

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