Διαβάζοντας αποσπάσματα από την ποιητική συλλογή ''Winterfall" (Εκδ. Συμπαντικές Διαδρομές)

Τίτλος: Winterfall

Συγγραφέας: Michael E. Spiggos

Εκδόσεις: Συμπαντικές Διαδρομές

CHAPTER IV: De Ruina et Lumen - Descensus

6. Creatures Of Light

 

What are we if not blind, poetic beings,

Creatures of light and shade

Stray ghosts of pain and torture

Obliviously adapted to the absence of sound

Under grey skies

 

We live and breathe by echoes we no longer comprehend

Calling memory “our truth”

And our stark survival “our law”

And in delightful moments

We recount our disfigured joy

As it slips through our fingers like countless grains of sand

 

What are we if not heartless, finite souls

Children of a tortuous existence

In a constant merciless struggle against ourselves?

Weakened warriors wounded in the heat of our countless battles

Flaunting our scars in proud display,

As we head towards horizons fathomless and infinite.

 

And still we glide through the universe

Creatures of longing and loss,

Without hope, without redemption,

Onward in the dim persistence of love and death

Uncertain whether the unknown awaits,
Or if it has solemnly passed unnoticed – like us

Our names still unknown.

(Το πρώτο, με τίτλο Creatures Of Light έρχεται από το πρώτο κεφάλαιο, που ονομάζεται De Ruina et Lumen - Descensus.)

CHAPTER V: FLAMMA AMORIS

12. Hearts In Winter Fall

In the stillness of the frost-bound city,

Where shadows stretch like silent incantations,

A heart wandered, unclaimed, beneath the cruel winter sun,

Every echo a stark reminder of promises never made.

 

Frozen rivers carve violently through haunted streets,

The wind still whispering curses and blame,

For barren remembrance trembles under the weight of time,

And snow falls like silent judgment from the heavens, cold and unforgiving.

 

There she waits in the corridors like an angel of retribution,

A figure draped in pale candle light,

Hands folded over dreams untouchable,

Eyes like twilight - distant and unforgiving.

Twitching like the serpent of betrayal.

 

Yet her gaze never reached for my own,

Never ignited the shadows around me in the hope of salvation,

And the fire inside died slowly - dissolved into brittle ash.

Each heartbeat a hollow echo in empty halls and shattered sanctuaries.

 

I sacrificed myself to the winter then –

An offering without altar or reward,

A votive of fire and blood, unclaimed,

Every step a penance, every breath a testament

To a love that perished before its own name was known.

 

And so I wander, lost in thought and desperation

Through corridors of light that dare not touch me,

A fragment of eternity forsaken beneath the winter’s fall.

(Το δεύτερο με τίτλο Hearts In Winter Fall έρχεται από το δεύτερο κεφάλαιο που ονομάζεται Flamma Amoris.)

CHAPTER VI: Lumen Pallidum

15. The Remnants Of Time

 

What do memories hold, apart from silent echoes?

I remember a time when two deceivers fell in love,

Unseparated even through the thinly veiled shrouds of truth.

And yet, so many feelings died in a space where words should have been,

Forever left unspoken.

 

In a place where dreams of love were strangled by despair,

Hung helplessly in the senseless whims of desire,

Our souls finally fluttered in the wind -

Crushed under the burden of dreams undone.

 

Time waits for no one, they say,

Pale reflections of a life deferred,

Measured only in pause,

Between the notes of a song and the silence of a heartbeat

That we so blindly mistook for depth.

 

How strange that we yearn for oblivion,

To set our souls alight –to set our hearts free,

To absolve us of our sins.

When all the while memory binds us tighter still.

 

Yet, I would burn the world for you,

Hold the moment past its natural end,

Until the firelight fades.

 

But now, nothing remains to be held,

Nothing left to dream for,

The light in the dark is dim - forever,

For we are moments in time,

And time is finite.

(Το τρίτο με τίτλο The Remnants Of Time, από το τρίτο κεφάλαιο με τίτλο Lumen Pallidium.)

Περιγραφή:

In the aftermath of a sacred and devastating love, only a permanent winter remains, left to reside in the cold ashes of remembrance. Winterfall is a profound lyrical descent into the frozen wastes of memory, where passion’s flame becomes a cold fire and ruins are reconsecrated as sanctuaries of loss under a pallid dawn.

If Michael E. Spiggos’s debut, Under the Rose, was the sacred war of love, then Winterfall is its stark, philosophical armistice. This is poetry as austere exposure: a brilliant, chilling exploration of the permanent emotional climate forged in passion’s aftermath. In the lineage of Plath, the shadows of Poe, the dark romanticism of Baudelaire, and the fierce spirit of Robert E. Howard, Spiggos does not offer solace—but rather the breathtaking clarity of a survivor who has built a fortress from the ruins.

Mapping the serene, brutal clarity of a heart that has learned to breathe within its own winter, this is a modern masterpiece of elegant despair and hard-won silence.

 “Lost I was,

Forsaken, in the sweet maelstrom of my torment,

My lingering thoughts, gently seduced by the sublime beauty of our fall,

In the grim clarity of the space between lust and desire.”

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