Let me consider a while, in fracturing mirror;

The bells ring threateningly impassable path collapse.

I exist on thick stratus clouds obsidian laps,

Laughing mania maniacal teeth

At pitchforks and torches, flames and horses, mobs malicious.

I will offer you no retreats.

My existence radials from metaphors cores,

Signs of times unsublime; trumpets and seals,

Exsanguination moon and ashing sun tides,

At my manifestation surfacing riling rise!

You will find me where I am remote.

You will find me where I am cunning and silent.

You will seek me where I am circumspect.

Let me consider a while,In fracturing mirror;

The silence ripples out in wasp honey articulate,

Sickly sweets decaying desiccates.

I am lurking unholy gothics,

Under invocations ancient,

I am plague flesh fevered,

Howled slowly in spreading bleeding blacks.

I am reviled hearts in atavisms,

Abhorrence in hidden self harm hinderances.

Hidden in underneath’s, a human heart screams for ascent,

A new creation, a new monster, a new confluence.

Judge me, O Efreeti, according to me…

Dying off into a terrified…wisping…whimpering…whispers

© Leila Samarrai

Photo Credit: The False Mirror, 1928 by Rene Magritte

Into the Silence

All hard pounding in my ears becomes silent

ringing in my head, the inside of which seemed

vaster and darker than Altamira,

and galumphs up to Silentus again, immemorabiles.

Your heart is cracked up as well.

Whole, full-bodied, in one piece,

my hands were white, peaky-pale,

dappled in pinkish capillaries.

If you want even more detail—

a tunic of metarterioles under my skin

and multiple other vessels all the way up to the capillaries.

And if you seek, even more, many other things cracked

under my skin …

As I cherish thy facial features covered

in yellow feathers and your flat head

in the shape of a hammer,

they with those we compare

jumped on me and rode me,

starting to grind me … down to dust.

As they whack whacked into powder, they whack into one nothing.

The long ages body was that of King Kong.

But heeling time undaunted that forever flows

But frae man’s eternal wayside waits

But even silence is at hand

and the grass hairless drum

between this and the grave

And yet you go on again about days over and gone.

What would you have me write off?

Two Mad Loves, to do or to try Rotten Folk,

Ill, the Shifty, and Other Bovine Folk

From the Vision of Only For the Mentally Fit,

Aki Was no Pig, The First Druid Was no Pope

All preaching tables fun and games just now:

but were it later, I’d still fall to and fro

til doubtful birds enrapture to cave

and the live air, they’ll rest a bit

All of this antiquity stuff is too alone on that aphasic arcane

The Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation doesn’t exist either.

Toss in a few interesting anecdotes from your own life.

Sneak a ‘sonuvabitch’ somewhere so that the people can identify

The empyrean whisper, in the highest kingdom, come, enthroned

All chimeras and all phantoms stand at Time’s Wheel

Or a spirit

Or a sky wave

Horus the Child

About my silence!

I no longer keep the hours back, let them flow

All that I sang of and burned, I carried within my soul

Bearing bristled enormous mutated spiders threatening to turn me

into a screaming meal.

Gone are the towered silences

with their mere intellect

with froward mind fainted away

within tomorrow’s cell esconced

The Ghostwriter. Cripple. Madwoman. Video version, poetry recital

It is a poem about passionately driven needs to share something as uniqueness itself. But a poet feels the lack of words to express it, to see all through unto another imminently adversity of poetically rhythmic challenge to pledge in well-written form. But, unfortunately, a poet must write in a language which is not his/her own.


The Ghostwriter. Cripple. Madwoman.

Why creator, why Serbian is my mother tongue
why did you make me crippled …;

My gentle voice was offered in kindness
alone is to lay the proper framework
well-placed suggestive supportive backings
by not chasing dreams ending
but rather cherishing its precious moments
along well-written lines of living it.

a hinted thought in my vocabulary
processing attempts as each memorizing
idealistic flash penetrates my mind
with this blinding reverberating echo

I needed an old friend from birth
as one throughout the day today
and then when the house was calling my opening of its door
welcomed me with overwhelming reports of

which music from the past I knew somehow guiding me
into today’s reminder
that I will be ok no matter what tomorrow brings.

I can finally close my eyes in being reassured nightmares
wait not for dawns whistling birds dreaming
in sync with a mine of better days break

for all of those to see us through to another
imminently adversity of poetically
a rhythmic challenge to pledge in well-written form.

in our daily healing needs
if ever we hope to carry our torches healthily
throughout our chosen marathons of life.

This gift though will not fade
as those previously brought forth
throughout artistic history has proven.
It always starts with One leading by example.

My own path is not my own path
Be it a humanistic artist in a spirit form, or if medical assistance would reveal its wisdom’s
recognition when proudly sought after whenever its shelters
offered from overwhelming thoughts
let their presence be known.

Circumstances will always be differentiating
between origins of authenticity.
However, the origins of free will be authentically never different
in any circumstances brought between those trying to be heard.

A whisper triggers curiosity’s interest in turning
While a panicked scream can send people running in the opposite direction.

The most fared ally of oppression
loud voices is the ghostwriter.

My words of change will be heard by those meant
to join mine journeys of poetic justice.