de-morte

[de-morte]

When one truly loves, it is forever; no whisper lost upon the wind, no ember extinguished by the hand of time. It is a mark pressed deep into the marrow of the world, a sacred name burning long after silence falls. You rise as relic, holy and unbroken, a constellation traced upon the midnight skin, a prayer upon the tongue of stars. Through you, immortality breathes, and I am witness, I am witness still — long after ruins forget, long after dust finds its rest. Channing A. M, Carnelian Eyes

[de-morte]

Death stalks the edges tonight, brushing its fingers down my coal hard spine.

Channing A. M

[de-morte]

Let the world paint you dark now. Let it drag its dusk across your name. Let the silence swell inside your ribs, And shade you in tones only grief understands. Now wear the cloaks of oblivion— heavy, creased with years and unspoken things— where the world cannot claw nor claim. What they glimpse is but a vestige, a shadow dulled by history’s weathering hand. Let the dark make you invisible, let it armour your heart in quiet steel, so even longing won’t know where to find you. Channing A. McClaren

[de-morte]

The black orchid, engorged upon ancient bone, exhales a miasma of lost splendour;

its velvet bloom, steeped in crepuscular chill, bruises the breath of forsaken dreams.

Yet love, ruinous and sovereign, clutches the hollow ventricles of a mourning heart,

and the soul, lustral yet battered, rises through the phantasmagoria of despair.

In the hallowed gloom we are entwined, tethered by sorrow’s immutable thread.

Channing A. McClaren

[de-morte]

I speak in the tongue of storms— And those who hear me do not sleep again.

Channing M

[de-morte]

The air I breathe— It smells like forgotten things— wet stone, dried violets, iron.

Channing M

[de-morte]

You’re still here in the way cold settles into bone. I’m the ordinance you left behind, and I carry it like a relic— not holy, just haunted.

Channing M

[de-morte]

Amidst the howling zephyrs, the phantasms murmur of me—an entity swathed in tenebrous umbrage and sanguine effluence, whose mere vestige bids the firmament shudder. The specters quail at my specter, for they discern me not by appellation, but by the inexorable gravity of my dominion upon the terrestrial sphere, the inexhaustible tether of my unseen dominion. I am the inexorable specter that wades through the sepulchral hush of forsaken epochs, yet mine exhalation wanes not, nor doth the cadence of my being waver. Ever am I discerned beyond the penumbra of light, an eidolon of such dread eminence that even the winds, once rampant, dare not bear my name upon their fleeting sighs. The earth, insensate though it be, recoils beneath the augury of my gaze; the very tempests, erstwhile sovereign, now falter, bending in reverent dismay. There exists no sojourn beyond my grasp, for my vestige is etched into the abyssal umbrae, my dominion extending beyond the confines of mortal ken. The spectral witnesses of the ruin of empires, those cast unto the yawning maw of eternity, have beheld me and trembled; for I am no evanescent phantasm, no ephemeral wraith to dissipate with the tide of years. I am the undying force, the aeonic torrent that surges beneath the veneer of existence itself, and these revenants—broken beneath the wheel of time—quail before the veracity of my immutable decree. They know, in the chasms of their spectral marrow, that I am puissance untamed, imperishable and vast, and we, the perished, are yet unfit to endure the revelation of me.

Channing M, The Monochrome of Darkness

[de-morte]

The ghosts, who watched the empires drown, now tremble, bent and broken down. For I am no mere fleeting wraith, but that which time nor fear unmake. And in the dark where silence seeps, they dare not wake me from my sleep. Channing M.

[de-morte]

… I could be torn, then resurrected beneath the fractured sky of a forgotten world, where I stand alone, bathed in the light of a cold moonstone. My blood seeps into the earth, thick and unyielding, as the stars above bleed into the void—no wound deep enough to silence my pulse, no darkness strong enough to bury me.

Channing M

[de-morte]

Who knows why we were taught to fear the monsters, and not those who created them. Channing M

[de-morte]

“The hands that inflict our wounds possess no claim to the cleansing of the blood they’ve spilled, nor the darkness in which we purge its stain." Channing M

[de-morte]

I am begotten of both the accursed and the divine, a wretched spawn of shadow and sanctity. Channing M

[de-morte]

Dissevered Falchion, once cleaving the heavens, now blandished by wars, lost in time’s Vile fetter. The warrior, bloodied and obeisant —has learned the apotheosis is but a vanishing wraith, an ever eluding grasp. Darkness swallows the battlefield, a requiem for the vanquished, yet in its cold embrace, Valor —resurrected from the ruins. Through the fire of defeat, Sagacity is wrought in the crucible of suffering. Amidst ruin's tomb, the spirit, like a swallow through shadowed winds, hath risen in triumph.

Channing M

[de-morte]

Sing of woe where roses die,

'Neath silver’d moon and ashen sky,

For love, once clad in crimson bold,

Now wanes in dust, in ruins old.

Yon waves dost crash on Wales' shore,

Like battles fought in days of yore,

Where hearts, like steel, in war were cast,

Yet love’s own blade did break at last.

O wretched fate! O cruel decree!

That love must bend to tyranny,

A soul that once could kingdoms sway,

Now silent lies in cold decay.

Lo! Hear ye not the widow’s cry,

As love, in shrouds, is borne to die?

His breast that once could quell the storm

Now lifeless lies—his blood still warm.

Upon the field where lovers bled,

The crimson rivers slowly spread,

And ‘midst the slain doth sorrow tread,

To kiss the lips of love long dead.

O hadst thou fought, and love had won!

Hadst fate not darkly veil’d the sun!

Yet all is lost, and all must fade,

For love that warred but ne'er was made.

Thus, echoes through the hollow air,

A whisper lost, a mourner’s prayer,

For what was dreamt but never grew,

For hearts that broke, yet ever true.

Channing M

[de-morte]

My delicate amber, you, my autumn blood, where everything has withered, but you remain, you my rimm'd bower, my scarlet grotto, I have sharpened my élan vital under your darkest hues. You my autmn blood, I, your immortal seer, your winter bare, I am the dried cloves that you have pressed ceaselessly between your soul, and now, now I reek of eleemosynary rivets.

Channing M

[de-morte]

Bouddica leading the battle with fire torches, detailed battalion scene, painting by Channing M