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Helllooooess Nichossss....

Good to see you back...

Having insight into the reason for the poem...maybe you should just let go...because if they're sunken under deep seas...then retrieving them will be hard...

And can you take the pressure?

Well, how or who did you get the insight from?

NIIIIICCCCCCHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOO/FFFFFFFAAAAAAAAAAAABBBBBB

The AMW has been much eemptier without you and Jess writing all over the place.

Okay..so hi there I guess.


Spirits

The wind chime clinked merrily in the night wind; the door was opened as someone stepped into the dimly lit shop, rows of bottles neatly arranged on the shelves. Barrels upon barrels of sherry, whiskey and ale cramped up the tiny shop, the whole room smelt like a wine connoisseur's breathe after the tenth glass.

'Can I help you Sir?' the small rake-like man muttered from behind the counter. 'Any preferred spirits?'
Mikhail whistled a cheery tune, 'I need a present for my friend. It's his wedding anniversary in two days.'

The shopkeeper's smile grimaced bitterly, his hands dropped to his side. 'Well, perhaps a fine champagne? I have some newly arrived bubbly at the back. Care to taste a sample first?' He nodded, inhaling slightly, the deep oak like scent made him heady, the shop itself was intoxicating. Like a moth drawn to the bright flame of a burning candle. Every bit like that.

The shopkeeper gestured graciously at the red velvet chair, Mikhail took a seat immediately. He was tired, Joe better appreciate the gift. The shopkeeper vanished into the darkness of the back room, there was the sound of rummaging emanating from within; the clink of glass against glass made him wince internally. Wine had always been his passion.

He grinned inwardly, thinking of the old vineyard that he had grown up in, his family's proud legacy over the centuries, the finest sweetest champagne, the most refreshing clarinet, the most bitter vodka, everything his family produced in their wine empire sprawled across the globe. Today he would try something new though, over the years his palate craved for something that did not have its roots from home. His eyes trailed across the barely lit room, it was homely, even cosy. The wandering pair of spectacles came to a rest at the portrait that hung over the counter. A black and white picture stared back, it was a portrait of an Asian woman, she had long beautiful hair, her eyes staring dolefully back. There was a small container in front of it, three sticks of incense wafted the burning smell across the room, clashing jarringly with the hint of grape and fruit.

'Sir?' The shopkeeper had returned, a glass of champagne held out delicately. 'If you don't like it, I could get more samples.' He bowed slightly.

'Oh thank you.', his fingers curled gingerly across the slim slender glass. The liquid bubbled, it seemed to welcome him.

'Who is that picture about?' he couldn't tear his eyes off the picture.

'Oh that's....my wife. She passed away two years ago. Car accident.' The shopkeeper turned away, his face masked in the shadows. Mikhail almost seemed to notice a grimace flicker across that thin face. 'Sorry to ask.'

He tilted the glass back, the liquid slipped down his throat in a single swallow; regretting immediately. The sulphur like sting poisoned his taste buds, he blanched and made a face. All at once, it tasted like rotten flesh; it reeked of something old and mouldy, like decayed wood seeping malevolently into the flavour. Coughing violently, he almost dropped the glass.

'Sorry!', the shopkeeper took the glass away, looking as if puzzled. 'I'm really sorry about that sir. I'll go and double check the bottle. Here, have some water.' He scurried away.

The cool water helped a little, washing away the horrid flavour. It was a relief. Mikhail wondered which producer dared to sell such wine, he was washed with disgust. His eyes hovered again on the picture at the wall. There was something not quite right with it. He shrugged, must be his imagination.
His mind trailed away, back to his own childhood memories, as he mused over the poor quality wine. Nothing like the fine spirits they produced back home. He remembered the first time he had tasted wine, when he was seven on the day of his grandfather's funeral, sneaking into the kitchen to sample a bottle of red that was left on the table. He remembered it like yesterday, the kitchen was vacated; everyone was in the living room; his grandfather lay in the funeral casket.

It tasted almost exactly like the glass he had spat out, distasteful, disagreeable; it left a dry taste on his tongue. Mikhail chuckled slightly, he remembered that his grandmother had put an end to his little party; the little shriek she gave when she had seen him.

He even recalled that absurd little story she had told him to frighten him after that incident. What was it again? He scratched his head. Something about the wine and ghosts...He laughed again, it frightened him greatly as a child. Always the superstitious one grandma.
----------------------------

The shopkeeper was taking an awfully long time, he clicked his tongue impatiently. It had been fifteen minutes since he had left. Grumbling he got up, and peered into the backroom.
'Shopkeeper? If it's too late, I'll get it tomorrow!'

No answer. He could make out a dark figure standing in the dark, in front of a particularly large barrel. Taking a step forward, he shouted again.

No answer again.

Flick, he fumbled and switched on the lights.

Instantly, his eyes flicked out him horror, his voice died in his throat, as a pair of white rotting hands clutched his increasingly pink throat. He's eyes widened, the pupils wildly spinning, panic written on his face.

In his blurry dying vision, he could still pick out the distinguishable face and figure. It was the woman in the portrait, except her eyes were no longer doleful and sorrowful. For there was nothing in the black empty sockets but the deep depths of a demented soul. A gurgling rattling sound vomited out from her opened mouth, blood dripping down her mangled body. She was clothed in a single white hospital dress, her body a contorted distortion of a human, horrible to look at, bones stuck out as yellowed flesh stretched across her face.

Black stringy threads descended from the ceiling, like snakes. Her once beautiful hair now a mess of living death, they throttled and engulfed his body, bringing him up. Her cold fingers pierced his jugular vein, blood oozed out. Bone crunched, as his body was twisted beyond recognision.

In his last breathe, as he was hoisted, swinging on the ceiling, Mikhail remembered.
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'Hush dear. It's the spirit. Whenever wine tastes like that, it's because a spirit has came into contact with it......Now don't stray away from the living room....'

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A history story.

Byzantine Silk

Procopius was up first as usual, his shiny tonsured head bobbing by the river. Two years into our journey and the routine remained the same, the dusty roads seemingly unchanged, the barren landscape devoid of any living thing except our mules and two of us.

We hail from the Byzantine Empire, resurgent and mighty under the new Emperor, Justinian. The Empire's lands stretch far and wide, though Greece and Asia Minor is our heartland, the Emperor commanded authority as far as Alexandria, his just laws read out at the squares of Granada, his name proudly proclaimed at the great Marches of fertile Levant. Our iron legions encroached the Pope's domains, drove out the wretched Goths from Rome, our blessed ancient city, the Persians had accepted Justinian's gracious olive branch of peace. Gold and jewels were plentiful, for tribute arrived by the boatload, the Hippodrome roared with the sound of chariots racing, and the bazaars were filled with merchants bearing exotic wares of far-away lands. And the wares we Byzantines valued most were silk.

Silk, the wondrous fibre neither transparent nor opaque, lighter than the finest linen, it caressed the body yet seemed to flow freely like the graceful rivers of the Rubicon. Silk, the Oriental cloth that nobles craved, second only to the Emperorâs purple murex robes, and yet these were made from silk. The amount of gold and silver spent on that cloth was enormous, the drive and want for it put such a strain on the treasury that the Senate of the ancient Roman Empire nearly passed a decree banning it. The Persians, swarthy and barbaric men of the East, had a monopoly on it, for they controlled the fabled roads that ran across the deserted steppes to distant Seres. The legendary people of Seres, long ago contacted by ancient Emperors centuries past, now so mixed with fantastic myth and stories that the truth could not be discerned by the most able scholars. I snapped out of my thoughts as Procopius splashed the ice cold water on my face. He looked sternly down, his long oak staff gripped tightly in his hands. 'Time to get moving, Nikephoros. We don't want to get caught in the open. Especially not with those bandits.' He clicked his tongue, frowning disapprovingly.

Our mules dragged their weary feet across the great sand dunes; we had just entered the Wild Steppes, devoid of civilised men, populated by all manner of beasts, urchins and local strongmen. The fringes of civilization seem to wave at us, the last towns we had straggled past. To be sure, these towns were but savage degraded parodies of cities; the populace struggled to survive under the constant harassment of nomads, who were all too inclined for quick raids and plunders. What miserable folk, toiling under Godâs sun only to have it snatched from them by cruel steel, unable to break free of their bitter cycles of life! Still, it was civilization, not like the tribes that roamed these deathlike valleys. Yet the border towns of Persia contrasted sharply with the splendour of Constantinople, where the Bosporus fed the ravenous Black Sea, the great iron chain straddling its Straits to prevent invasions, where marbled statues encrusted with gems adorned the dwellings of even the most humble. Honey and milk flowed like the fertile Nile; our proud cityâs strong towers warded the impregnable triple walls, within which Justinian reigned. And we were a world away; away from the monastery we called home, from our fellow monks and scribes, dedicated Servants of God each and every one of them. The Emperor had sent us on a special mission, to obtain the most innocuous of objects, yet the source of many a violent war of desecration, of betrayals and alliances. What we sought was simple, the secret of silk, the most miracle-like cloth on God's great Earth. And we sought too the worm that through spinning the thread as luscious as a fair maiden's hair spun also the bitterness of the web that was the Silk Road. God bless us all.

It was said the people of Seres inhabited a land so vast it stretched to the Eastern Sea, were wise, just, and of mild temperament, eschewing collisions with their neighbours. They guarded the secret of silk jealously, but now it was time they were parted with it. Of course, that is if we weren't found out. What odd figures must have we cut; two pale foreigners cloaked in dull hair shirts, our habits drawn perpetually, shuffling along in our leather sandals. Our packs were riddled with fleas, our Crosses were covered with fine brick red rust, our Bibles we had long forsaken for papyrus did not last long in the infernal climate. We had missed our prayers on occasion, too busy with survival we were then to tend to spiritual matters. If only the abbot could see us now, he would have blasted us with verses from Scripture, screamed that we were pure embodiments of blasphemy. We chuckled at that thought, old fool.

So far, the North Star guided our paths at night; in the day we were as sightless as the unfortunate Imperials who were blinded by Emperors, to prevent successful contenders for the throne. My heart was rankled with acrimony at that thought, rancour swept through my veins. I was homesick; nothing could have prepared me for this journey; but it was already too late to change course. Eternal fame in the scrolls of Byzantium history beckoned to us, and our fealty in the Emperor pressed us on. The Emperor points and we obey, Into the wilds and far away. And so time passed, day after day, little grains of sand dripping sinuously down the Creatorâs hourglass. As for Procopius, the sullen man's dour face stretched like the shadows cast by barren sand dunes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We entered the crowded bazaar; all manner of souls plied their exquisite wares, wrapped in hundreds of different costumes, it was evident that these merchants heralded from faraway lands. We had stopped at one of the numerous oasis city-states that riddled the land, a brief but welcome respite. This city, which straddled the edge of Seres like a tiny flea clinging on to the back of a gargantuan beast, held the key to our journey, insignificant though it may seem. The Kingdom of Khotan was one few places other than Seres that possessed the important art of sericulture. And we had inadvertently wandered our way into the heart of it, its capital, called Khotan too, or Yue-Tian as the Seres call it. Here, the locals intermingled with peoples of dozens of nations, chief amongst them the traders and artisans. And the most multitudinous of them were the people of Seres themselves. Diminutive people went about dressed in outlandish costumes of a curiously feminine aspect, with long sleeves swinging below the waist, and robes of fabulous cut adorned with dark green jade ornaments. It glared of tasteless opulence.
Over the years we had been forced to adapt, learning and picking up new languages, we were rather proud that we were fluent in the native tongues. And thankfully so, for everyone here spoke rapidly, shouted above the din of the marketplace in strange languages completely alien to Byzantium.

From all accounts, from what we had seen, Seres was as what the ancient records told, its powerful military imposing an iron control dozens over cowering vassal states, its population dwarfing that of our own Empire, its great cities wealthier than all the lands of Europe combined. The Emperor of Seres commanded absolute authority over this vast entity that seemed to breathe a life of its own. The production of silk, or sericulture, was jealously guarded, for Imperial power decreed the export of silkworms or their eggs as a state crime. Magnaneries (silk factories) were said to be scattered across the country employing thousands of young women within their walls for the sole purpose of weaving raw silk. Heaven had been kind to us, and God certainly smiled upon us, for there were magnaneries within the thick stone walls of Khotan itself, spinning out the finest silk we had ever glimpsed in our short lives.

We decided to go no further into Seres, it had already taken us years to get here. And so, we rented a convenient room in one of the seedy tavern that littered the slums. The filthy place was perfect, all manner of traders, men down on their luck, mercenaries made up the mixture of strange bedfellows. No one would give us a second glance, even if we did look like pale marble as some curious locals told us. There were all manner of folk in the tavern, sully eyed Turks, men from India who were dark as onyx, the omnipresent people of Seres; their religion was just as multitudinous, Zoroastrians, Taoists, followers of the Prophet Mani, even our fellow Nestorian Christians. Buddhism however was the dominant religion, like the Eastern Wind it had spread fast throughout India, and the Tarim Basin region, penetrating deep into the Empire of Seres.

Palming our handful of copper coins, the owner of the tavern nigh shoved us into our dark room, and much like the lair of a wild animal it was. There was a dark figure sitting on the single bed, whom we were forced to share a room with. He would not give us his name, and was cloaked in mere rags that stank like the great sewage systems under Constantinople. He was old, older than the withered mulberry trees we had seen outside Khotan, full of tales of ancient heroes and sages, he had a strange pensive look around him. Procopius, ever the brooding one ignored him as part of the furniture, and sat on one of the stools in the room, unpacking his rucksack. The tavern owner had warned us earlier the man was a lunatic, given to spouting tales from his past travels to any unlucky passing person, droning on and on in endless monologues. As it couldn't be worse than the sermons we were forced to listen to in our youth though, my curiosity was piqued. True to his reputation, before I could open my mouth, he burst into speech. Grinning behind discoloured yellow teeth, the wrinkled creature was a master storyteller, his stories fascinating and captivating. Most surprisingly, he spoke Greek, albeit hesitantly.

It turned out he was a merchant in his youth, born and bred in Khotan and had in fact made it as far as Nicomedia, bearing silk, as his forebears had done for generations. Captured by bandits, he had made a lucky escape across the desert plains of Persia on foot, eventually making his way back. But that was decades ago, yet his memories were crystal clear, eagerly he sought my ears. He told me local myths, celebrated in Khotan culture, and the one that struck me most naturally concerned silk.

It was a well known legend amongst the place, a proud story told by even the royal house of Khotan. Naught but half a millennium ago, it was said the Emperor of Seres had betrothed one of his daughters to the son of the King. Clouded in fiction and court gossip, it was said that the princess brought silkworm eggs concealed in her hair as part of her dowry; others yet mentioned she had secretly done it, bringing the wrath of her father when he had uncovered the secret. But the damage was done, no longer was Seres the sole manufacturer of silk, Khotan wielded another weapon amongst its trade arsenal of valuable wares. Much of these was sent Westwards, making their slow crawl towards the gleaming Persian cities, the bejewelled centres of Indian civilization, some of these too ended in the hands of barbarians, stashed away pitifully in vast hoards of plunder. Slowly and gradually, but a fraction trickled into the coffers of Byzantium, hungry, always ravenous for more.

And the road! Ah the road where merchants braved blizzards, the constant harassment of wild animals, the odd encounters with bandits. It was simply a wonder, the gateway between East and West, connecting the great powers of the world, ensuring the flow of foreign cultures and goods. The Silk Road they called it, spanned both on land and by sea, two prongs into the unknown.
The old man rambled on and on, but I had heard what I needed. As the sunâs rays cast flamingo pink on the clouds, a plan unfolded in my mind.

In Khotan's bustling market, it was said that anything could be bought. The most fragrant musk from Siberia, porcelain wares from Seres, exquisite rubies carved from the caves of the Gupta Empire. Anything could be bought, a manâs death, the sabotage of a rival merchantâs wares, anything for the right price. Such was the rough world of the Silk Road. It was easy arranging for a few men to smuggle out silkworm eggs and mulberry leaves during the darkest hour of night. This was done quietly, under the blackest of skies when the Heavens were bereft of moonlight. It was not a crime to have in possession these objects within the realm of Khotan, the real problem was getting out alive. For the ruler of Khotan had decreed that anyone caught of smuggling silkworms or their eggs out of the city gates would be unceremoniously executed for the loss of a state secret.

As the masked men silently handed us their precious cargo, we slipped them a handful of gold coins, courtesy of the Emperor. The bag contained dozens of white eggs, they were like fulgent pearls, each a perfect sphere. It was our duty to get them back at any cost. The plan was as ingenious as it was simple. Procuring bamboo poles from the twice blessed market, we slit the tops off. Deftly hollowing out a large niche at the top, we had soon made a secret space for our cargo. A sly trick, but an effective one hopefully.

We set off from the tavern as soon as dawn broke, eager to begin on our journey back to the West. Nearing the city gates, there was a long queue of assorted people, they and their pack animals were searched by the guards, patted down carefully to detect any smuggled goods. We had tied the stack of bamboo poles to our mules, hoping in our hearts that the guards were not sharp enough to notice the slits in the green bamboo. Sweat drops dripped profusely down as we inched closer and closer to freedom, the guards' naked blades glared brightly in the sun. My heart thumped, I gripped my Cross and muttered a quick prayer.

I nearly protested when I saw the guards shake, knock and tapped the bamboo poles, almost made a run for it when the chief guard gave me a sharky smile. Procopius just stared balefully. 'You came here just for bamboo? What fools. Next!' the guard uttered, gesturing rudely for us to past.

Letting out a breath I didnât know I was holding, we hurried out way through the human crowd into the desert plains. As I eased opened one of the bamboo caps, I smiled when I noticed that some of the pearls were cracked in two, pale white silkworms wriggled inside. We were finally going home.

More than a year since I updated this haha.

The Forgotten Name

Whisper the name that you once acknowledged,
The one who now lies fast asleep,
Hidden by more than deep snow and foliage,
Whose dreams end at a needle's tip.

Time erodes all but itself;
It frustrates and pushes to the edge,
Rocking back and forth by himself,
Murmuring a long forgotten pledge.

A word which escaped your attention,
When it flitted faintly like a dying star,
Struggling to invoke a sensation,
But falls flat and painfully far.

Have you forgotten it that fast?
As a wall stood when it was not before,
When you kicked everything into the past,
Shutting your ears to everything implored.

Hopeless Romantic


My heart quivers in your soft hands,
Fluttering; it beats a an uneven staccato,
I was dwelling in a distant fairyland,
When you squeezed out its last echo.

You played with my gullible soul,
As a cat toys with a ball of string,
Cunning thief, my innocent mind you stole,
Into my ears sweet tunes you did sing.

I hate myself with a dark brooding,
When I recall all your hollow words,
That a spider spun, who were you deluding?
Yet to hold a bitter grudge; that's absurd.

Because love's web still ensnares me,
Forever angelic in my blind eyes,
The manipulative Devil I refuse to see,
This pain I'll blame on poker-face lies.

Shut out all my friends' simple advise,
Every one of your critics is my enemy,
Unrequited love is my one incurable vice,
As my affection stews paradoxically.

I'm in Hell but my imagination conceals,
Hypocritically I clutch at the irony,
As your knowing smile cruelly kills,
All you've spared is the gripe of misery.

Sobering thoughts of a hopeless romantic,
You left me hurting like its Heaven,
My love for you defies rational logic,
Throbbing anguish of passions overdriven.

I love the last one, some of the images you drew were great. Good job! I'll read some more later when I have time. *thumbs up*

Mikhail wondered which producer dared to sell such wine

Thank you Mav That was highly flattering. ><

And so...where it began, so it shall end.

Billowing red sand,
Traced a body on the road,
Still warm to the touch.

Paradise Lost?

I remember your harsh barbed words,
That ripped through my starry fantasy,
As my rash love tinted and blurred,
My vision of earthbound reality.

When you casually tossed me away,
Leaving me marooned on my isle of despair,
Wistfully building dreams for another day,
Desperate oath to love I did swear.

I bitterly resented my Paradise lost,
Your chilly silence left an eternal frost,
All my begging and pleas I did exhaust,
Only then did I accept my dying cause.

The banquet of fives senses you conjured,
Vanished in a twinkling of my now open eyes,
As your smile twisted and honey voice demurred,
A vapid succumbus without your disguise.

My shattered illusions of blissful felicity,
Squeezed my still regretful mind,
Disgusted with my thoughts of toxicity,
Yet I'm done with lies and your kind.

Sweet words right from Belial's script,
A vengeful fox worthy of Beezlebub,
One more cruel then bloody Moloch primed,
Outstripping Satan in his realm of wrath.
Tell me now dear, how much have I really lost?

Oh my dear, yet more poems of woe..~

Yes Jezz, since when did you come back!

Since now I guess.

And since when did you call me Jezz? *stern face*