The King Who Wears a Crown of Frost

Introduction

A haunting contemplative poem exploring the universal human experience of loss and its profound impact on our existence. Through vivid imagery of a mythical King who rules over all lost things from his frost-crowned throne, this introspective piece examines how loss shapes identity and the hidden wisdom that emerges from pain. The poem delves into existential questions about where lost loves, dreams, and parts of ourselves go, creating a powerful metaphor of an island kingdom built from collective human grief. A thought-provoking exploration of sorrow’s transformative power and the bitter fruit of understanding that grows from life’s inevitable losses.

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So many things are lost, almost every day;

a child may lose a toy, or an adult, his heart

We may misplace ourselves if we go astray;

if our choices in love are not very smart

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We lose what we love, what we hold dear;

we lose what we hate, what we so despise

No criteria - we may lose a smile or a tear;

we may lose our madness or what makes us wise

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We lose so much; our lives are tainted by loss;

wretched beings with their backs all stooped

We lose so much, we are defined by our loss;

garlands of failure, our tragedies all looped

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Where do all these lost things go, once gone?

This is the very thought that makes me curious

Do they cease to exist beyond their last dawn?

Do they become shadows, silent yet furious?

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Perhaps there is a dark island, far, far away;

filled with deep sorrow, it is eternally cursed

A sea of knowledge, all silent and grey;

pulsing with regret, an unquenched thirst

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On that island, there is a colossal hall of grief;

therein weeps a King, wearing his crown of frost

His legacy is so vast, and yet he fears no thief;

his, is the treasure of all that has ever been lost

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He laments not the loss, yet his tears are true;

he mourns the tragedy of loss, dying in vain

Loss is a tree that bears fruit, if only we knew;

the fruit of wisdom, rotten and bitter with pain

The Inevitability of Sorrow (Previosuly, Seeds of Happiness and Fruits of Sorrow)

What if happiness is only the beginning of sorrow?

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All those who cultivate seeds of happiness,

will one day surely, eat the bitter fruit of sorrow

It’s your destiny, and your legacy, my dear child,

just follow your past, don’t seek a new tomorrow

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All those who know how to love and how to care,

will one day surely meet a sad and lonely end

It’s bound to happen, oh please don’t weep or cry,

it’s not something broken that you can readily mend

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All those who dance, and who laugh clear and loud,

will one day surely shed the bitter tears of loss

It’s the rule, my friend, you can’t run and fight,

you always pay the price, you always bear the cross

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All those who forgive and carry no black grudge,

will one day mourn the loss of their own hearts

You can’t keep on giving, giving more and some more,

there’re always expectations, even when hope departs

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Those who plan and cater for all possible regrets,

will certainly be the most regretful of all in the end

Regrets are the fires that keep the memories warm,

without regrets, there’s only coldness, you can’t tend

The Last Dream of the Dying Lighthouse

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Before its stones collapse into darkness, the old lighthouse imagines a final blaze of glory that never comes.

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The eagle soared high above the purple sea,

dark wings embracing the darkness of the night

A lonely lighthouse stood its vigil, tall and free,

alone on the shore, a noble and honorable knight

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Diving down and below, the eagle peered closely,

and his mighty heart was filled with a heavy sorrow

The lighthouse was crumbling down and in ruins, mostly,

it may have had a wonderful past, but no tomorrow

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The lonely lighthouse was very old, now just a token,

its tall structure, draped and cloaked in grey shadows

The glass lantern was long shattered and broken,

who broke it, and why and when? Who really knows?

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The sea was cruel and was full of wind and storms,

terribly angry and high waves venting frustration

Breaking apart furiously in white foam of many forms,

the foundation badly shaking, but still holding station

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The storms wrecked ships and boats, big and small,

hundreds of souls lost, and at sea, they all perished

The lighthouse stood on the shore and watched them all,

the loss was dire; there was nothing to be cherished

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It served no noble purpose or aim, no, not anymore,

a lighthouse devoid of any beacon or shining light

Being old and crumbly did not make him any sore,

having no light was its biggest tragedy and plight

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He just stood alone and prayed to God Almighty,

he prayed for nothing else but one single last chance

A last chance to fulfill his only purpose and legacy;

a dying shaman pleading and begging for a last dance

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Maybe God listened to him as He is kind and benevolent,

plucking a burning star from the heavens, He tossed it down

Hitting the tower, it exploded in embers, an event so malevolent,

but it lit the beacon, making the lighthouse wear a gold crown

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‘Ah! I have fulfilled my legacy, and now I can die satisfied’,

the lighthouse loudly yelled its last-ever cry of sheer joy

Very briefly, it was alight, at least it seemed as if it tried,

but to the wandering and lost ships, it sure cried ‘ahoy!’

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The eagle soared high above the dark, inky depth,

watching the shooting star and the high-burning fire

Sadly watching the lighthouse crumbling, it’s sad death,

he prayed for its noble soul over the burning pyre

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But, no desires were fulfilled that fateful, dark night,

God was busy elsewhere; there was no grand scheme

It was peaceful, no shooting stars, no fire, and no light

Alas! the lighthouse was only dreaming its last dream

No Need for Metamorphosis

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A meditation on futility, longing, and the ache of wanting what was never ours.

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No need for metamorphosis and change,

when the change won’t ever change the mind

Of all the shooters standing on the range,

people I love, both the hateful and the kind

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No use of running and panting with ambition,

when the path doesn’t really lead anywhere

I should only walk and with complete submission,

trudging down the dark lands of nowhere

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No need for dreaming of fragrant flowers,

when the vine is bound to wither one day

People only like to sit in high, mighty towers,

their love and affection, always held at bay

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No use of reaching for the shining stars,

when the stars aren’t really meant for me

What is not ours and will never be ours,

shape-shifting shadows, as I behold and see

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No need for claiming loyalty and true love,

when all the desperate pleas fall on deaf ears

Hearts filled with a poisonous, fuming brew,

eyes darkened with memories and fears

Nostalgia: Scratching the Healing Sores

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What if nostalgia isn’t healing—but a wound we keep reopening?

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I am addicted to the pain, the sweet throbbing pain

I am fond of the pleasure, the long steady rain

I am addicted to nostalgia, which comes at my leisure,

the memories and regrets, my great and humble treasure

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I am addicted to scratching my old healing sores

I am fond of the pain, it lives in all my pores

I scratch them and peel them, the dry, brittle crust

I nick them and skin them, the gold-brown rust

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I am addicted to scrubbing the old, clouded mirror

I am fond of reflecting, my past growing clearer

I see them and smell them, the sepias and the musk

I recall it all vividly, the dawn and the dusk

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I am addicted to being lured in by its deadly charm

I am fond of its false promises, all sincerity, and no harm

I see it as the raindrops caught in a great spider’s web,

seducing me, entrancing me, the dance and the ebb

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I am addicted to all the waves, the ups, and the downs

I am fond of the onslaught, the smells, and the sounds

I perceive it as a storm, all chaos and destruction,

my mind is the stage, it’s a theatrical production

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I am addicted to my past, a slowly burning pyre

I am fond of my journey on the path of desire

I am addicted to nostalgia, my friend, till my death,

I am fond of its company, till my very last breath