Voukah [Voo-kah]; home

A Plebeian Scholar’s Plea

A gown is much too heavy
for the minuteness of existential significance,

But a hoodlum’s garb is much too light
to hold the surge of alacrity in defiance.

While not bound by the intricacies of houses
to live with integrity and benevolence,

There are layers of omnibus auras
that direct from mere ambivalence.

While not voiced as the journeyman
that is so desperately sought,

There is enough of the Renaissance
to join the battles that need to be fought.

While there are Oxfordian intellects
that cast shadows upon us in their light,

A humble flame flickers in a shorter wick
when called upon in an unfortunate blight.

Quietly, in hiding,
pondering beyond the plebeian life,

We await in light slumber
until we are called upon in moments of strife.

While our body, mind and soul
dissolve in effervescence,

The spirit of our work
shall keep us warded from evanescence.

So hear my plea, dear cognition,
for we live to serve the greater intellects,

What keeps us in existence
is the very thing that destroys our prospects.

Vanilla Tincture

Taken aback by pungent odour, it’s hard to regain your composure once you’ve found a beautiful discord. A cacophany of sorts, or a rude awakening. Or perhaps a sad state of affairs.

» Keep reading.

Quiet discomfort

Uneasily waiting to do nothing, it’s the feeling of doors slowly closing, and hesitating for just a moment before it does.

Silence is barely comforting.

Such a feeble heart for such an iron encased mind. There’s enough space to breathe in and exhale, yet the most arid air can still feel smothering. Resuscitation is always possible, but I barely feel capable of accepting a breath.

It seems the longer I wait, the harder it gets to breathe. Floating adrift a sea of stars and lanterns, there are trees of bamboo limbs sprouting in astronomical speed. My body hasn’t been submerged yet, but I can feel these gentle fingers pulling down from my chest, barely giving me enough space to recoil my ribs forward. And yet I lie here listlessly, waiting and expecting to be asphyxiated by an unknown force – an unknown body or unknown power. I make no effort to push my face forward or tilt forward. Lethargy seems to have overtaken any part of my life. I’m giving up.

Is this sea even water? It feels almost heavier – more silk-like or gel-like. Is this blood?

Stripped and bare, I feel the wavering loss of consciousness, and I barely feel contented. It’s scary. It’s overbearing.

I’ve been impaled, feeling ravels of my bowel being looped like a ball of yarn. It’s hard to scream with a mouth full of blood.

Atop the bamboo, I see a hooded figure. Lifeless. Literally – it is none other than the robe I once wore before being disrobed. It beckons me to take shelter within it, yet it feels harder to grasp for the longer I wait – the silk, thick austere robe of red. Red like opium poppies. Red like blood.

It’ll take me that much longer to ponder my priorities. My skin does not blanche more than it already has.

Quell

Quell the angry voices.

» Keep reading.