The creeps

THE CREEPS

«Between the desire / And the spasm
Between the potency / And the existence
Between the essence / And the descent
Falls the Shadow»

From the The Hollow Men by T. S. Eliot
About eternal
When you're going to eat in a room full of hungry people praying to heaven for manna, the main thing is not to rustle the packaging.

Between the dots
The colon starts the flow of thought,
The triple dot — the final sign.
From title to the end we fought,
Until our hearts were sewn by line.

A blank sheet turned to dummy's face,
The thread of roads has led to naught.
The characters have left the place,
Of weary, hollow problems fraught.

Yes, there were feelings, there was heat,
The blood was pounding in the head.
But morning comes — I lace my feet,
And evening — toast to love instead.

So many books have passed me by,
With wise and heavy words to say.
But still for Mom I deeply sigh,
While world is full of dreams today.

The new ideas will wear their crowns,
From pure to empty, same old scheme.
But idle talk and dusty nouns
Will block the naive path to dream.

On a Tiny Planet Where They Wait for Dark
The air is trembling in my room,
It tells me that I’m not alone,
Not in some tavern’s hazy gloom,
And that my soul is not my own.

"Who are you?" softly I inquire.
No answer comes. The silence stays.
I wrap myself in no desire,
Like shadows of a dream-filled haze.

But you're persistent, ghost unseen,
You read my life within my eyes.
The shards of thought, the paths I've been,
The captive dreams, the tangled lies.

I feel no fear, but I am wary.
I want to pray, but find no word.
In this wide world, it’s all too scary,
I won’t escape, I have concurred.

I have forgotten what was due,
And so you’ve come to me again.
Midnight once met both me and you,
But I forgot. Time flows in vain.

You touched my temples, turning gray,
With light so quiet and so deep.

The Master’s Gambit
In rustle of rhythm, in pulse of the vein,
In colors of pupils I gave for the pain,
The inside of skull whispers firm and so deep:
"Unlatch the door, friend, from the shadows I creep."

I’ve been in the marrow since first drop of rain,
I’ve counted the cycles of loss and of gain.
Your lungs are my bellows, your heart is my drum,
I’ve waited for ages for this hour to come.

Don't look in the corner, don't look at the wall,
The silence is heavy, the shadows are tall.
You think you are walking this Road on your own?
But every your thought is a seed I have sown.

The dust in your throat is the ash of the kings,
I’m the coldness that winter and emptiness brings.
So bow to the hunger, the ancient and vast,
The first one has come to be present at last.

The whispers are fading, the night’s getting faster,
Make way for the shadow...
Make way for The Master.

The door has swung open, admitting the ME
In the critical point of the game, as you see.
The Knight must be offered, the sacrifice made,
The move is completed. The debt has been paid.

The pulse is now steady. The pupils are clear.
The silence is empty. There’s no one is here.
The mirror is cold. And the morning is gray.
The Master is gone. Or he’s hidden away.

The mint on the brush. The white on the chin.
I’m cleaning my teeth, keeping secrets within.
A mundane routine. The reflection is fixed.
It’s time for the work and no time for the tricks.

The Mirror and the Key

The flower, the river and the wind
Are friends of mine and friends of yours.
The night, the oak-tree and the blind
Are foes who might distort your course.

Of course, it matters little now
Who on your path will soon appear?
Just timing, and the heat's low glow
Will bring from out to up here.

Hot news, hot stories, burning love
Will spread the wings of lurking soul.
Beware of those who fly above,
For deep inside—a drunken ghoul.

The key you’re hiding in your soul
Is not to stay for all your days.
The past is gone, a hollow hole,
Your mind awaits the glory’s blaze.

The sun will rise with cries from heaven,
The moon will hide its shaded face,
And hours from twelve down to eleven
Will lead your soul to another place.

Where flower, river, and the wind
Confirm that life does still go on,
Where night, the oak-tree and the blind
Are glad that all is moving on.

The Mirror's Veil
Reach out your hand... let it glide o'er the glass,
Watch how the eyes in the shadows will pass.
Take up the iron, let the hammer fall slow,
Shatter the boundary. Let the world go.

Seven years of shadows? A ghost of a fear,
A truth that no mortal can ever make clear.
For the gates to a realm where the dimensions bend,
Open in silence... where the old hallways end.

A stranger will find you, walking the pave,
With that same hollow smile that the mirror once gave.
Don't linger, don't falter, just turn and depart,
Before fate carves its mark deep inside of your heart.

Beware of the darkness, the alley’s cold breath,
Live like the others, while waiting for death.
A girl with white braids... from her walk she'll return,
Is she carrying life? That is yours to discern.

A table, a cafe, a long, quiet stay,
She’ll whisper an offer to lead you away.
Delay for a heartbeat, then slowly agree,
While a man with a cane watches all that he'll see.

Greet him with reverence, a ghost in the light,
Lift up your hat in the chill of the night.
Now you are home with her... where everything’s strange,
Coffee or tea? For a soul, it’s an exchange.

The choice is your burden, remember the cost,
Follow your heart, or you’re already lost.
The memory will fade like a dream in the rain,
The door slams behind you. It’s closed. Only pain.

Drink to the bottom. Let no drop remain,
The world starts to blur like a window in stain.
Look in her eyes. Let the details take root,
A mirror stands whole... perfect... absolute.

Reach out your hand... touch the surface so deep,
Your fingers slip through... while you’re drifting to sleep.
In the world you have left, she is cutting your vein,
Now you are ready... for the endless domain.

The Chamber of Reverse
The walls are sweating with a silent fear,
The clock is ticking, though no hands appear.
A room of choices, stripped of light and grace,
Where time is melting in this hollow place.

Look down: the floor is carved with word so sweet,
The gates of Heaven lie beneath your feet.
Look up: the ceiling holds the Hellish door,
A distant exit you can reach no more.

But see the iron hooks along the wall?
They wait for those who are afraid to fall.
A coil of rope is resting in the shade,
The final debt that’s ready to be paid.

No mirror here to show your weary face,
Just cold white soap within the washing space.
To clean the neck? Or make the noose slide fast?
The sacrifice is breathing its very last.

The Master’s Gambit led you to this cell,
Between a sunken Heaven, rising Hell.
The knot is waiting, and the silence cries:
The one who enters is the one who dies.

The floor is open, simple as a sigh,
A golden path for those who dare to die.
But soul is trembling: "Can it be so near?
The grace is cheap, and Heaven is a snare."

She looks above, where Hell is cold and high,
A jagged crown against the iron sky.
"The Truth is hard, the Truth is reached by pain,"
She whispers softly, caught in Master’s chain.

She takes the rope, she ignores the floor,
And starts her climbing to the upper door.
To reach the ceiling, scaling every hook,
The path of martyr that the Master took.

The soap is ready, and the knot is tight,
She seeks the 'glory' in the endless night.
By choosing 'Up', she falls into the trap,
While Heaven waits below... a silent gap.
Eternal fire

December, Friday, minus seven,
Two kids are burned despite the heaven.
To ashes turned inside the oven,
Like bronze bull standing in the wind.

To find the truth, the town has thrown
All desperate forces it could own.
What really happened in that oven?
And who, O God, that murder did?

The city’s pulse is calm and even,
No mourning for the lost and bereaven.
A simple glitch within the heaven,
Where children’s luck has simply thinned.

The sheriff’s file is over-thrown
With facts and data, yet unknown.
He searches for a seed that’s sown
By human hands, to guilt assigned.

But some may see the path uneven,
The logic of the silent oven,
A casual interest, dark and cloven,
That left the mundane far behind.

The marks of truth are clearly shown,
The presence of a power grown.
The reason stays to us unknown,
By those who watch, but stay behind.

Police’s reluctant finding’s thrown,
Against the facts they’ve never known.
A simple case, the closure's shown,
With no one left for guilt to bid.

The files are closed, the pulse is even,
The town is quiet and bereaven.
A balance struck within the heaven,
Where ancient hunger’s mask is hid.

The Final Balance
The sand has kept the tally since the year thirteen-thirteen,
When first the scarlet thread was cut by hands that remain unseen,
And through the silent centuries, the counting of the dead
Was measured by the Holy Birth that turned the heavens red.

For if the Star had risen in a different, distant hour,
The number of the ritual would lose its ancient power,
But thirteen hundred times and ten the debt has met the sand,
To feed the hunger of the Void that rules the barren land.

The Shadow waits in hollow dunes where time has ceased to flow,
While ruins of the Temple Mount watch the darkness grow,
The altar stands in fragments now, the incense smoke is cold,
But destiny is stubborn and the parchment is unrolled.

One woman’s soul was offered first, a Gambit in the night,
Two children followed in the flame, to keep the balance right,
Three shadows cast upon the earth to match the ancient breed,
A harvest sown in human pain to satisfy the greed.

The gap between the sacrifices—centuries of sleep—
Is but a shallow breath for those who have a soul to keep,
For when the Third Foundation stone is laid upon the hill,
The ancient clock of blood and bone will start its final thrill.

Three lives are left to close the debt, three messengers of woe,
To pay the price for everything that happened long ago,
But Heaven closed the earthly book with strikes of three-fold grace,
To pay the blood with retribution in this hollow place.

The one who comes does not begin, but finishes the fray,
A harvest of twelve hundred nights plus ninety in the grey,
He is not born within the light, but formed of bitter vine,
The climax of the silent game, the ending of the line.

The doors will swing to let him in, when counting reaches end,
To take the crown of emptiness that no one can defend,
While in the dirt, the debt is paid, the circle is complete,
And history is laid to rest beneath the Master's feet.