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Walter Rego Poem
Cut me a piece of her horn,
Take me a piece of her wing,
For my death she won't mourn,
But on my grave she will sing.
There is no love but death,
Cut me the wind of her breath,
Beautiful skin like a reptile,
Her caws cut into the back of the vile.
Yet her mouth shall not serve,
But serve only the one,
The circle is an a symmetrical curve,
Her true birth has just begun.
Copyright © Walter Rego | Year Posted 2020
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Walter Rego Poem
"Mould from clay!" said the divine, from these ribs we shall make our art that is fine. We shall celebrate with the innocence of thy wine, and mourn with the thickness of her bread.
Everything divine is moulded, but everything divine is never a straight line, for man is the perfection of art - and only he knows the line.
Let him take the clay that he desires, lest he throw it into the beastly fires. Fetch it to me if you know how to mould, for one can only make clay within the cold.
This is the story to be told, of Lilith, fire and rib - she does not but take from the crib, for that is Samael, the breaker of rib.
He is the one who bathes in fire, she is the one who bathes in desire. Let it be said that this is true, from God comes clay, rib, and fire too.
Copyright © Walter Rego | Year Posted 2020
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Walter Rego Poem
I look, through a mirror dark - reflections I see cause my mind to spark.
Visions of monsters and angels whole, they scratch and break trying to steal my soul.
Reflections of shadows cast aside, the visions of evil that I did abide, visions of vultures that circle, I try to escape, no faster then a turtle.
Then the black should swallow me whole, jumping through the mirror - finally taking my soul. But of this soul they cannot feast, for this soul belongs to the great beast.
Copyright © Walter Rego | Year Posted 2020
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Walter Rego Poem
Out of the blue came the black,
Shattering the skies with a terrible crack,
But what is gold if one can't enjoy it?
But what is black if it breeds on the tormented?
Can black breed on a soul that was tormented long ago?
Surrounded by the true vultures and an innocent soul.
This hell is mine of this I'm sure,
But when I look in the mirror I don't see pure.
I have no time for anger, I have no time for blame.
Ash to ash, dust to dust,
We all become the same.
Copyright © Walter Rego | Year Posted 2020
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Walter Rego Poem
The abyss stares back, I’m sure this is true,
It stares into the soul, and breaks the spiritual glue,
It stares into parts you never thought were there,
Too late to show you of what you truly care.
The abyss does not judge, it knows of no wrong,
It sees time neither short, and neither long.
Anger resides here, happiness and hope,
Of all things that are fixed, of all things broke.
To see it in the distance, a feeling of unease,
A mighty abyss will surely bring you to your knees.
A circle of time brought forth in the mind,
Of all deeds evil, of all deeds kind.
The abyss is black, black as night,
For there is no sight, sight brought from the light.
So let go when you stare into the abyss,
And throw yourself into the bliss,
Try not to fight, try not to resist.
The abyss brings closure, and swarming thoughts in the conscience,
For the abyss stares back, but speaks no words,
The abyss guides the fools, and swallows the herds.
Copyright © Walter Rego | Year Posted 2021
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