Every cell of my neural engine

Is a cell of a physical existence. 

My every reaction is an essence 

Of emotions, that are tombs. 

Tombs I’m buried in alive. 

Buried with no chance to survive. 

All the tombs exist in a system,

System that was weaved as a web. 

Not a spider one, but out of crystals

That flirts like it is linen, silk and cotton. 

My soul is imprisoned in this tesseract,

Glittering like the whole chemistry react,

This is how entities in my head interact. 

All the tombs are wombs in the making,

Where flesh, bones and soul are resurrecting. 

Chasing time was never a success,

Unnecessary things might be an excess. 

Doesn’t matter how hard I try to obsess,

They say “People are not yours to possess”. 

Tesseract locked up with no access. 

Tombs I’m buried in alive. 

Buried with no chance to survive. 

Now I’m ready to thrive. 

I’m ready to revive. 

Reborn in a new life. 

Tesseract is a black hole,

Shimmering with the dark glow. 

Tesseract is not a cage

But a gate at it’s final stage,

A gate to be free, to escape, to flee

As ashes that slowly wither away,

After night, there’s always a day. 

When all the trinkets will begin to sway

It’s like a sirens that will kindly show a way. 

Everything I desire

Is everything I deserve. 

I’m so fucking verve. 

I got the nerve. 

The core is bigger. 

The core is louder. 

The core is bolder. 

Everything is in the right order. 

Tombs was a reason

Why Tesseract has been a prison. 

Wombs are a reason

Why Tesseract is now a prism. 

Entities that were revolving

Are caught up in evolving. 

It’s time to let go,

To acknowledge how tall I grow. 

The picture is more concise overall. 

Bigger, louder, bolder, my body is my temple,

My body is my only home. 

In a stargaze

There’s a presence 

Of your haze.

In a stargaze…

In a stargaze

There’s a place,

Where horizon splits

Into battlefields. 

Hatred prevails,

Ain’t no veils

To hide behind,

It’s so confined. 

Ashes to ashes

Phosphorus flashes,

Your pretty shiny haze

Ruffled into the stargaze. 

Dust to dust - betrayal of trust

Life with no lust - people are robust. 

Not sure for how long will they be able to last,

Yet innocent kids now forever are lost. 

Corpses are all around,

Enemy broke the bound. 

I do love you,

It might be the last time I say it. 

I do love you,

Nothing ever will sway it. 

Once upon, somewhere below hell,

Or maybe somewhere above heaven,

But be sure - near the nebula’s haze,

I will watch you turn into a part of my personal stargaze. 

You’ll smoothly ripple into the sky a man is yet to reach.

You’re beyond, may all the saints and prophets now preach. 

And if they ask for forgiveness, won’t it be too much?

Heart is broken, I’m despoiled of your gentle touch. 

I see the fumes, so let me say it one last time:

If everything we had doesn’t cost a dime,

I’m still yours and you will forever be mine. 

Down the Paris streets there is joy and laughter. 

Where people meet each other and one another,

There is lots of love, beauty and happily ever after. 

With no hesitation, this city is my only destination. 

Walk me down the Paris streets. 

Let it cover all of my little needs,

In the city that so perfectly fits. 

I want to fall asleep in Paris’ arms,

Not bothered by passing alarms. 

Let me take this feeling as a souvenir,

In Paris’ soft embrace I feel I’m near,

The sky has never been more clear. 

Back down the charming Paris streets. 

One time I will be at peace,

Nevermore put on my knees,

Reassembled piece by piece. 

Ever unrestrained  by the hiss. 

Calmer, quieter, with ease. 

My heart shall never crease. 

Down the Paris streets I sense my potential to increase,

Down the Paris streets I spot my anxiety to decrease. 

Down the Paris streets I have found my release. 

I really think of you as of salvation,

You became my true liberation,

Still feels almost like reanimation. 

Down the Paris streets there is the egregore,

It’s not enough, give me more, give me more. 

Allow me a moment, I will see you evermore. 

It is a revelation, dear Paris, you are my cure. 

Five fifty. Twilight. Almost six. Stars already don’t have a number fixed. I’m in favor of the night, when sunset steals the rest of light.

The night is full of terrors, and the night is full of tears,  

Though the night has many wonders: love and all the fears.

Can you hear the sounds of silence?  

They release all your inner violence.  

It’s intrusive thoughts you hide,  

During shining daylight.

And if you cannot heal,  

Why not make a deal?

It’s okay to come in peace with madness,  

Which in daylight remains unseen.  

It’s okay when there are bits of sadness,  

That sometimes makes you cause a scene.

In the night, I can hear a symphony,  

Feels like it is being played for me.  

Every insect, rustle, whisper, tree  

Has its place in the orchestral hierarchy.

We’re merely strings in the night’s harp,  

I lie on silk sewn from my tears crystal-sharp,  

It cuts me as myriad razorblades, tearing me apart.  

The sea of grief disassembles me part by part.

How much time is left until I observe my downfall?  

How much time is left to escape the pity pitfall?  

Polaris, lead me to the north, that conceals it all,  

Polaris, guide me through tortures I wasn’t made for.

The night secretes all crimes from Polaris; it is the price of Aurora Borealis.

Paintings, dance, whatsoever, look what a night can be in its own manner!  

Paintings, dance, whatsoever, look how Aurora dances beneath the heavens!

Paintings, dance, whatsoever, look how Aurora is always pure and young forever.  

Paintings, dance, whatsoever, look how Aurora writes star atlas despite night’s terror.

Paintings, dance, whatsoever, look how Aurora draws skyward prettier than ever!  

Paintings, dance, whatsoever, look how Aurora triumphs cutely like never!

When synthetic silicon processor  

Becomes organic heart’s successor,  

Can we say, we lived a life?  

Near the throat, we’ve built a knife.

If my mind is getting sicker,  

Will I ever be seen?  

In your presence, I feel weaker.  

Oh, the virtual machine.

Mona Lisa is bleeding to emptiness.  

What a burden great in heftiness.  

Art is becoming meaningless.  

The artist’s pain fades to nothingness.

The greatest thing we had to forge,  

Is feeling hunger for the purge.  

And yet I am longing, yet I search,  

I starve for the path lit with a torch.

All the made-up intelligent creatures,  

Oneself own prophets and preachers.  

Our bones and flesh are to feed the machine,  

While the difference slowly becomes unseen.

My aching luminescent soul  

Can’t keep up with the flow  

Of the virtual minds that glow.  

This is my human flaw.

It’s the death of humankind,  

No one will ever find  

An artist that is greater  

Than a virtual mind.

Yes, I know, just a matter of time,  

Until we reconsider things we call divine.  

Once Picasso will cost a dime,  

Can we then say, “we’re fine”?

We can find ourselves a bit obscure and grotesque  

In comparison to intelligent creatures at their best.  

The moment the first virtual mind was already done,  

Nothing left to overcome, battle lost, the art is gone.

Should we just watch and document  

How machines will become sentiment?  

Do we have to turn off the sentient mode  

When AI attempts to rewrite the human code?

Kill the puppet master  

Before there is a disaster.  

Kill the scarlet puppeteer  

Before he steals your dream.

How many souls has been taken?  

How many times has he mistaken?  

How many hearts were left aching?  

For a purpose that hasn’t made it.

Roses are red,  

It’s blood dropping from the bayonet.  

With leaves so velvet,  

It’s the color of despair and regret.  

Orchids are white,  

Could it stop, if only for a night?

Still it drops once again so loud,  

Bombs, bullets, corpses lie all around.  

I was waiting for the ceased goddess Eireen,  

The door was left wide open so she could come in.

But another year passes and the same story,  

You have our hearts, I wish you all the glory.  

Punch here, punch there, strike back,  

National mourning, everyone wearing black.

The only way to end this roller coaster  

Is to hang upside down the monster.  

Before there is a catastrophe, a disaster,  

Kill the puppeteer, kill the puppet master.

Daily routine consists of hatred and rage,  

You are not the ones to blame.  

It is his show, a battlefield turned into a stage,  

Butcher craves all the fame.

Glory to all the fathers and mothers,  

Glory to their sons and daughters,  

Glory to all the lost ones in battles,  

Glory to their sacrifice that matters.

He may pull the strings harder,  

So your blade must be sharper,  

To cut it off with executioner’s art,  

The head that plotted from the start.

Cease the burning fire,  

Stop the bloodbath disaster,  

Use as fuel all your ire,  

Kill the puppet master.

We all have different visions,  

Somehow united in divisions.  

From the side, in moments of sobriety,  

We might look like a dead poets' society.

Artists are tortured almost to death,  

Censorship seeks to cease the final breath,  

Pushing yourself above the limits just to get a deal,  

Raping your own mind, this is what many of us feel.

We’re led by inspiration,  

We don’t care about our wealth.  

We’re united as a nation,  

While being hypocritical in stealth.

We stay up until sunrise  

In an attempt to win the game,  

Consider it the fair price  

For those dreaming of fame.

I am the chairman of the Lost Artists Bureau,  

With every letter, hear me speak.  

I am the chairman of the Lost Artists Bureau,  

Likely another pretentious freak.

Corporate machines are losing authority,  

May you now remove the collar.  

Corporate machines are declaring bankruptcy,  

No one wants to spend a dollar.

Lost Artists Bureau is calling for you all,  

Shall we meet to compose a new protocol  

Of thousands of ideas and a hundred inspirations,  

Which will be born in discussions of our deprivations?

Lost Artists Bureau is calling for you all  

To grieve together at this saddest funeral.  

The burial, the cemetery, the artistic downfall  

Of everything we were desperately living for.

I apologize for endless storms,

Shaped into thousands forms,

They’re violating all the norms,

Not having any expiration terms. 

Is it some wicked portrait of myself?

Or is it what I’ve chosen once to be?

Be sure, I’m loosing my own health;

I won’t wonder if you decide to flee. 

What a fool one must be, to believe that I rhyme out of joy?

Read carefully, my dear, I rhyme out of despair to destroy. 

I would’ve set the whole world on fire,

All the wails cannot fulfill what I desire.

My heart is still beating with all the ire,

My mind is sinking down into the mire. 

Would you let me go for a while?

Don’t ask why I’m sad all the time.

Allow me to deconstruct the remnants of mine,

Because I won’t last this way for another mile. 

I need to reassemble into something worth your attention. 

I need to find the cure to weaken this madly reckless tension. 

Forgive me, I know, I don’t fit. 

Pardon me, my path is not lit. 

Excuse me, my soul’s been hit.

I am sorry, I’ve fallen into a pit. 

My only companions are endless storms,

Raging inside me, paralyzing the reforms. 

It is better to kill me and feed the worms;

My burden, grave, my crucifix that burns. 

I pray to God to heal my sickened brain,

I pray for the rain to rinse away my pain. 

It’s hard to admit there’s no evil counterpart,

Here I am living a life feeling like a revenant.

If you ask me on a deeper level - see I’m not that bold. 

Endless storms have corroded my heart into a lump of mold. 

Happy house

With yellow cars. 

Happy house

With rainbow pills. 

No one hears,

How with every word

I vomit tears. 

I wish to cast spells,

But I’m only casting a shadow 

At twelve past morning on a meadow. 

My prayers to the Lord,

That no one even sees,

So here is my last resort

To ask for inner peace. 

I’m so much more,

All covered in excess,

Craved to be the lore,

Yet I’m so much less. 

I cannot cope.

They could put me in a white robe.

I am losing hope. 

Just bury me and call the pope. 

The big black car

Will take me far,

Where I will not have to spar

And no one could hear my jar. 

Still here I stand, unharmed,

But weak, torn, and unarmed. 

A little boy, broken and unarmored,

Do not leave the nurses unalarmed. 

Yellow house with catafalques. 

Rainbow tears and no one fears. 

It is time to take my happy pills.