Gustaf's ring

Into the fjord estranged,
the ocean whispers,
amongst the hill of Ekeberg,
a lost soul grasps last breaths...
I felt the shadow,
my darkness answers,
looked in the corners
of my own...
The wind blew "Gustaf",
chill down my spine,
"Johansen" my mind figured...
Cthulhu chants
I was embracing
before a regular day...
But then it came,
the voice of omen,
a sailors word...
Never born,
character of book,
yet there he is,
with offering for me...
"Take it, take my ring!
And hear the Great Old Ones!!!
Cthulhu has arisen!"
I couldn't say some more...
Just one amazed "Fhtagn!"

Spotlight

Running comes to end,
sometimes there is
no place to hide,
so roads just end
and you get caught!
It is all a part
of your life's role,
it's not the end...
Quite opposite -
you get the spotlights,
time to tell your story
or to shine with alter ego spectacle...
There is no glory,
but there's fame!
You get your nickname
and a right for book,
based on all
dark things devious,
the monster gets the scene!!!
A main role granted
to your character!!!
Now go there -
rise and shine!!!
Series 'bout a serial...

Will

Never draw a line,
not one even,
if you're not ready
to be driven,
far away from all,
into the wild,
on your own
like a homeless child...
Life has no mercy,
nothing but a fight,
and if you're strong enough,
you grant yourself the right
to claim what's yours
by your own will,
to be, to rise,
to freely feel
...your path to seal!

Little crow

little crow

where'd you fly...

why so low

when you can be so high...

"Because I'm here

a soul to take,

from a body 

broken in ache!"

then take it

far away,

in this day

not to stay...

go, fly away!!!

so away!!!

as you may!!!

Float

frozen in time...
it's what chills the spine!
sphere beneath sphere
and you never get near

to the end of the void
or the entrance

shapeless are feelings
and without a healing...
no bottom, nor sky,
never low, neither high

to the end of the void
or the entrance

lost in forever,
being in never,
space nihilism
in hell's chaotism

to the end of the void
or the entrance

The old man's hand

The old man's hand
crooked and deformed,
just seen too much,
life-beaten,
tries to serve as well,
as in the good old days,
the golden years of it,
yet it fails so strong,
fingers like dry branches,
nerves are full of pain,
but never wait for end,
the sparkle small
of vital signs
keeps the mechanics working,
just every grasp on air
makes worthy
the attempt to stay,
it never ends until the end,
the work of old man's hand...

Storm

The wind came sudden
as a faith of no escape...
The trees just followed
in a dance decay...
Green and full of life,
yet doomed to bow,
and storm just swiped away
their summer glow...
The sky became a grey mess,
clouds brought coldness,
my mind just flew above
in pure wild madness...
Is that a bird?!