I had once been bound

Not by rules, nor by tyrannical hand,

But by my own heart.

The bindings were not unwilling.

I was not held against my will,

But bound by my heart with the fetters of passions.

And, those same passions

Found their way onto the pages of my notebooks.

I filled up more than I can remember

With words of you and what you were to me -

My love and my lover,

My passion and the object of the same,

My heart and my soul,

The north star, the morning star,

The dusk and the dawn.

Somewhere along the way,

As I made my way from novice to poet,

I wrote as those who had gone on before,

Those poets ancient, riddled much with rhyme,

Who did create great rules for rhymer's work:

Rhyme for the sound, and metre for the time.

But, as I learned of finest poetry,

I lost my love, my passions, and my heart.

I babbled on in rhymed cacophany,

Forgetting where I found the blessed art.

I wrote to please the rules, to satisfy

The rigid structure of that which is done.

But, now I wish to free myself again

To come again into my poet's home.

So, once again,

I will write not by the structure,

Or rather, by the obstruction

Of men who are long since dead.

For, they had their chance with passion,

But it died with them. But, my passion

Is still alive.

It thrives on the fire

In my soul still kindling,

Though slightly dwindling,

Still barely visible swindling its life

From the cold outside

Which only seeks its end.

Once again,

I will return to my poet's home.

For that home is you,

As it has been. Who else?

Who, more than my flower,

Blooming like Persephone in the spring,

Could make my heart sing

The tune it sings for you?

This day,

This hour,

This moment,

If only for a moment,

I will bare my heart,

Lending its all to this art

So that I might once again be bound.

Bound by freedom.

Bound by my own heart,

By my own passions.

For you are that same heart,

And each bout of that same passion.

And this poem is for you, my love.

So, if I never again am free to write

With all within my soul,

Know this, then, is my heart's last address,

And know that, for the moment,

If only for a moment,

I wrote of all my hopes and desires.

I wrote of all my passionate fires.

I wrote of each thing which brought me a smile,

Of each step I took on each mile

Toward that which I want more than anything else in the world.

Know that I wrote of you, my love.

My Love,

In my work, we deal in abstracts. This you know. We trade our wealth for wisdom, our power for paradoxes, our sex for secrets, but our knowledge for nothing. We hold what secret wisdom of the past we can muster close to our hearts in hopes that one day we will acheive that which we desire most. Some of the craft seek the grandiose exchange of lead for gold. Some wish to rid themselves of the basest materials in their being and perfect themselves unto the sublime. What do I seek?

I seek the grand work of the universe, the Magnum Opus. I seek the perfect union of opposite forces. I seek a union beyond all those before save that of Venus and mercury. I seek a peaceful rival to mete my impetuous nature, a calm for my storm, a ceasefire in the endless war within my mind. I do not seek wealth or power. I seek only you, my other half.

We were born naked in our rawest forms, and we have seen maturity unto the perfection of our opposite natures: I the Red King, and you my White Queen. It is time now that we experience the uniting of rubedo, to let it wash over us like a wave of ecstacy guiding us to celestial strands and pulling us back into the undertow of new unknown pleasures.

Let me enter you and show you the motion of a new tide, crashing onto each of your shores and pulling you off the land and into my control. May I forget the nature of lead and gold and make the locks of your hair the only gold that satisfies me. May I forget about the perfection of self and look only to you, my goddess and the only true perfection I have witnessed on the rock we call home. May I forget about power and long only to serve you. Let me deny my abstracts and cleave unto you, the only thing I know to be truly real. May we be united in glorious consumation of fate: worlds colliding hard one into the other, open cave mouths knowing one another on the beds of rivers, two young birds learning each the other's tune, and two young lovers shouting each the other's name to the rhythm of their hearts pounding in time. Let my soul reach out unto yours and wrap it in loving embrace while my body pulls yours into the passion of the moment.

Let me write this letter, not upon a page, nor with a pen; but let me breathe the words upon your skin, write them as far inside you as I am able to reach. Let me make your body my manuscript and write on every page. Write on each of mine, and let us be one. Let us know the release of true union, my grand work, my Magnum Opus.

With all that is within me,

Red King

(From Of Thieves and Murderers)

“Yeh Taruyeh Shiraíl Secha Shiraíl’ei.” (*11)

“The secrets you give will give you away.”

An edict had been issued by the time of this portion of Holknar’s account by the very same which was to bring Othor Valkyr to captivity: an edict which stated that any who should hear of the man or of his goings would be rewarded greatly if they should so choose to come forward with any information that they might possess. It also stated, on the opposite side of the dread token, that any caught with knowledge pertaining to this Henar would be put to death by the old ways (*12).

Of fear for death, or Of hope for reward, the knowledge I seek will be brought unto me. Thought he as he signed his name onto the parchment and pressed his insignia into the wax which bound the same to be opened in the streets and to be read upon each and every street corner. I will find him. I will find him, and I will end him. He will pay for the costs forced upon me. The debt will be settled, and his blood will run from my blade.

He, Holknar, did not, however, expect the information to come from such a source as it did.

“My lord!” came a shout from outside the door of Lord Holknar’s throne room, but our Henar could not be bothered at the moment for thoughts of murder plagued his mind as never before they had. He was consumed with one thought or another of his doing away with Valkyr when came another cry,

“My lord,” It was Grimjorn, the First-Guard of the Jolr, “There is come now information of the thief into your court. Will you receive it?”

“If there is one who will tell me of him who I have set upon, why would you question the sending of the same into this, my throne room? Have not I waited upon this for the days unto now? If they will say of him anything, send them in! Send them in!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who then is this that is come before me to deliver the man into my hands? What might I call his name?”

“Her name, sire.” The voice was no man, at all. “And, you might call my name Bashala, for so am I called by all the pious who know my profession (*13).” She looked down as Grimjorn followed in behind her.

“Well then, Bashala, with what news do you come into my presence?”

She remained silent.

“You do come here with some news of Othor, do you not? For, if not, I am able to make sure you die before you have taken your next step. So then, with what news do you come?”

“I was promised payment. This shall be discussed before any talk of your Othor.”

“Aha! A clever girl. What do you say, Grimjorn? Shall we talk of payment before services are offered? Shall a buyer go to market and purchase wares without having seen the merchandise he has bought?”

“No, sir. I believe not.” said Grimjorn with a somewhat sorrowful look in the direction of Bashala.

Bashala, though, was no fool. She had lived a life which called for a quick tongue and a quicker wit in matters of finances. She returned, “But, the wares I sell are of expectation, not simply of swift purchase. Surely you have paid sailors with the expectation of their return - a return with greater wealth than that with which they had been sent. How then can you speak of a market, when a voyage is what you are set upon?”

“Why, Grimjorn, I think she has beaten me at my own game. What a sharp wit! What a mind she has for such things! Well, certainly. Payment must be afforded you for such information. Such payment as is not easily dispensed. I will grant you one wish. Whatever you desire will be yours - but only one thing might you ask of me. You also shall never return for anything more save you are needed again, though that is unlikely. Is all of this understood?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Then, with this as my promise, continue in the telling of your news. What know you of Othor Valkyr?”

“First, your highness, his name is not Othor Valkyr. It is El Sha’akor. He is the leader of a band of thieves called Ye Poshteru Lishti. He came to me two nights previous to the robbing of your house. He visited my Bashol. He told me of his plot after he had had his way with me and after he had had much strong drink. He said nothing else, but that he would do this thing. I told no one because no one is exactly who would believe a Bashala. Furthermore, the walls of Vilknirr had never been breached. I had not expected his plan to work. But, it did, and now I come to you with the news. Grant me now, I pray you, the gift which you promised to grant me.”

“What shall I give to you? What is your request”

“Freedom, sire. I was born in a bashol. I was raised a Bashala. I was brought up in a world I hated, a world which thought to bring me under a brutal subjection, a world which forced a twisted man into my bed each night. My soul was stolen before I knew what it was. I want to be free of that world. I want never to be forced again to violate the spirit I hold so dear, having it forced out of sight long enough for one monster or another to feel more like a man! Grant me freedom. This is my petition.”

“You... You who denied me the knowledge of a plot which would ravage this sacred hall with devastation, you who gave yourself to the man who now runs with all I knew to some far off land... You have come now with nothing to say but that he is not who I thought he was, ask for freedom? I knew before you said it that he was not who I thought. This fact was born witness by the very occurrence which brought you to my hall.” Holknar stepped closer to Bashala as she recoiled slightly with a grimace. “Yet, still, I did promise to grant you this one thing.” At a word from his mouth, a word she did not understand, Bashala was hurled by some force into Holknar’s arms. “How can freedom be granted to one who has lived so long in captivity? Would not it be better to let the same rest in the captivity of her youth for fear she would not function well under such pressures as the bonds of freedom?” Bashala struggled for a moment to be free from he which held her now, another man who sought her restraint. She was soon brought by his force to submit. “Yet, still, I am forced by bond of oath to grant it you. But, freedom is not that hard a thing. It can soon be found by all who wish it for themselves.”

With his next movement, Holknar took Bashala by the chin and crown. One swift motion loosed the bones of her neck from their connection to her head. Her lifeless body fell on the floor in front of Holknar.

“Yes, freedom is not that hard a thing. Do you not agree, Grimjorn?”.

Have you ever wondered if you could drown without stepping into the ocean?

Without even taking the first drink?

To be broken

Like a flimsy token

At the arcade you played at as a child, shattered by emotion?

Ever wondered what it would feel like for some force to enter your lungs,

Fill each air passage,

Climbing up like the rungs of a ladder,

To have some unknown matter

Clatter up your spine,

Then rewind and blast the breath from you like a gun,

But have nothing around you that could cause such a sensation?

No?

Neither had I.

It just happened.

I saw her first when I was fifteen.

The sheen of her hair

And the gleam of her stare

Made me feel

Like she

Was a queen

Age fifteen.

I talked to her, and I was scared to death.

With each breath,

I felt like I came a little closer to death –

And a little closer to life.

I

Felt like I was above the clouds,

But the air

Is thin up there.

Something crept into my lungs, I swear.

This was the first time I felt it,

And kept me from breathing from the time she said my name

Until she waved goodbye that day.

I did not know what it was,

But I thought they called it “love”.

When I was seventeen,

She was mine.

She was my Athene,

And my Aphrodite.

She was my evening star,

And my sun bright shining.

She looked at me,

And her eyes were shining.

With her fingers, she traced the lines of my lips.

With my fingers, I traced the curves of her hips.

Like a script written by the greats,

I said how much I loved her.

She told me that she loved me, too.

I felt it again.

It started in my gut

And pulled itself up

Into my lungs, but

It really stopped my breathing

When she began leaning in to kiss me.

The lips she had traced

Embraced the lips I had dreamed of so oft.

They laced so perfectly together

As they held their place,

Racing one against the other

To go farther,

As far as they could.

I did not know what it was

But I thought they called it “passion”.

When I was twenty-one,

She was my moon and sun,

Undone before me

On the night we became one.

Dressed in white,

She said, “I do.”

I did believe she was my life,

My all and all my truth.

We held each other until the morning light,

Without the fright

That the night lends those who do not have someone to love.

I knew her name as I had never known before,

The door was closed,

And we gave each other more

Than we had ever given before.

She touched to my chest,

And with it, she carried the feeling.

It went reeling through my body

As each breath was sucked from me.

With each of those shallowing breaths,

I felt like I was coming a little closer to death,

But with each breath I felt her breathe,

I thought I was a little closer to life.

A life ever better with my wife.

I did not know what it was

But I thought they called it “happiness”.

I saw her for the last time when I was twenty-two.

I never knew

Why she flew from our home.

Like a bird that could not be kept in one place,

She needed to feel the wind beneath her wings.

She needed things

I could not give her.

I gave her silver and gold,

A hand to hold,

And a shoulder to cry on.

She needed to try on other faces,

Other places,

Other arms she could wear around her like bracelets and necklaces.

When I saw her this last time,

She had a new pair of arms.

They held her like I once held her.

She said she no longer loved me,

She drew me back down from above the clouds

With the help of those arms,

And that did me more harm

Than she will ever know.

The blow she dealt knocked the air out of my lungs,

And I felt it again.

Something crawled into those lungs

And chased out the breath.

Nothing was left when it had left.

She was gone

Along with all my will to live.

That will that she had given me

She took away.

My breath never returned after that.

I did not know what it was inside me,

But they told me it was called “anxiety”, “depression”, “pain”,

And a million other things

That could not bring her back.

Have you ever wondered if you could drown without stepping into the ocean?

Without even taking the first drink?

To be broken

Like a flimsy token

At the arcade you played at as a child, shattered by emotion?

Ever wondered what it would feel like for some force to enter your lungs,

Fill each air passage,

Climbing up like the rungs of a ladder,

To have some unknown matter

Clatter up your spine,

Then rewind and blast the breath from you like a gun,

But have nothing around you that could cause such a sensation?

No?

Neither did I,

But now I know.

It feels like her.

A ribbon blue for painting roses red,

An unnamed plaque for second place as well.

The first was he who made the paint to shed.

The second never lived to tell his tale.

Rewarded with a resting place of stone,

The runner up no consolation won.

His house of stone is home to him alone.

A piece of tin sent to his wife and son.

Particiation prize if you come back,

A mural for your mem'ry when you fall,

The brushstrokes red like sunset o'er the shore.

A ribbon for the widow all in black,

A ribbon in exchange for living soul,

The prizes for the crimson art of war.

When I was young, I began to build.

I built sidewalks and skyscrapers.

I built castles and cathedrals.

And every hall was filled with people

Who shouted my name

Again and again and again

When I entered the room.

I built a world where I could zoom

Around like an airplane,

Maintain my height in the flight

Where no restraint could constrain me.

And no master could train me,

Because I was the master of this world that I built.

When I was young, I was the pilot,

I was the captain,

I was the astronaut out in space,

Where I was wrapped in starlight.

And gravity with all its might

Couldn't bring me back down to earth.

I was in orbit.

I thought that the airplane was high before, but

Looking down on the earth from the moon

Awoke something in me that was dormant.

It was wonder, and I was full of it.

The stars were my playground,

And I played in them all the time,

Cracking spines

Of every book

I took down from the shelf

To learn about them.

When I was young, I was higher than I had ever been,

When I was caught by the fist

Of the other boys who caught me reading a book.

Maybe they mistook me for another,

Maybe they just missed their mother

And had no other way to deal with the hole that left in them.

Maybe the gravity of that hole held them.

I had read about black holes,

And I think that they had one inside of them.

But, as they struck me, I fell.

I fell from the stars to the earth,

And gravity effected me as it never had before.

When I was young, I began to build.

This was the first brick.

I began to build a wall.

Where all the real world could be forgone,

And all my fantasy could enthrall me.

The strike fashioned a brick in my hand

That I laid in the cool sand of the beach

Where I hid myself in my world.

The ocean swirled around my feet,

And I hurled brick after brick

Onto the wall in my world.

The next day, they struck me again,

A new brick in my hand

To be placed on the sand.

When I was young, I was just a boy who didn't understand.

When dad lost his job, I didn't know not to ask

For this and that

That he could no longer afford.

I did not ignore the fact.

I simply was ignorant of the fact.

He was no longer young.

He said his song had been sung.

Or, at least, the note did that we found where he hung.

Another brick had sprung into my hand.

This one stung worse than all the rest,

But it was placed with all the rest

On the wall I had built.

When I was young, I was not that tall.

I had built the wall so high, that I could not see all

The people around me.

I could not see that my world was still on the other other side of the wall,

Because I was not that tall.

I was not that strong, either,

And I could not climb higher

To see the clouds lining of silver shining over me.

I could only see the ocean, and the tide would soon be over me.

A little older would see me drowning in that tide

As I drowned myself in Mary Jane's sweet perfumes

And Dark Side of the Moon

To pass the time till I died.

When I was young, I built a wall,

And I was not tall enough to see over it,

And I was not strong enough to climb to the top.

Even If I could've,

I would've only jumped off.

But, then I was older.

I needed to figure out another way to calm my fears,

To quiet my demons sceraming out in my ears.

I had grown colder,

I had not seen the light of day in years.

I had been behind my wall where no one could hear

As I cried out curses mingled with tears.

Then I heard you say to me,

"What's wrong?"

It was like a song that I had never heard before.

Or maybe, I had.

Maybe the one who last sung it was my dad.

Whatever the case, The melody had

A certain gentle quality

That getnly lifted all of me off the ground.

I heard the pounding

Of something in my chest.

I took a gentle rest to put my hand on it.

Then I remembered what it was.

It was my heart. I had not felt it in I don't know how long.

It must've been your song.

"When I was young, I began to build"

I said. And I told you of all I had built.

My world with the ocean that swirled

And the sidewalks and skyscrapers,

And the castles and cathedrals,

And then, of the wall and of all the guilt.

"It's alright." You said to me.

"You don't have to be the person you don't want to be.

But, if that's who you are, don't pretend with me."

Those are the words that you said to me.

And with every word, I began to drift higher into the air.

The wind began to blow through my hair,

And the sun kissed my barenaked face

When I saw yours and traced

Each line of it with my hand,

My hand that I noticed did not have a brick in it.

"How long have you been there, outside the wall?"

"For a few years, waiting on you to call,

But you never did.

You were hid back here."

"I never knew." I said.

"How could you have? You were nearly dead."

And that is how you saved me.

When we came back down from our flight,

We were back in the world that I had made.

We were in my world.

You, were in my world,

And my heart swirled like the ocean.

And, as we stood there, you began to tear down the wall.

You said, "There is no need for this now, beacuse all

that this represents

Is the time when you were on the fence

Between living and dying."

I was done trying to keep the barriers up.

I couldn't be an island. I was not strong enough.

And so we tore down my wall, and we bagan to build.

And now we stand not in the world that I built,

Not in my world,

But in ours

Where flowers bloom into stars

And it is only a hop skip and a jump to Mars,

And where wonder

Once again fills our hearts.