Tuesday 22 December 2020

The Longest Night

No man is an island.  Not even the blackened sun.  Solstice tears, tossed upon the raging sea. People imagine a difference between poetry and prosper.  A fundamental disconnect.  They think magic can be cleaved from mirrors.  A disassociated realm of pieces and things all existing in isolation.  But this is never the truth of an incantation, or a song.  The stars move as the sea is moved.  In rhythm.  In concert.  This is far more than a public dreaming, or mortals cast as angels upon the stage of my own imagining.  No, this is something I've fought for all my life.  The endless, violent wanderings of a father.  The quiet, noble battles of a mother.  The living legacy of a child.  All of us tossed and torn, upon this storm of tears.  All of us lost without one another.  I will never pretend to be anything more than a poet, but nor will I deny the truth of angels within this poet's heart.  To know things one is not supposed to know, to see things one is rarely permitted to see.  This mystery.  This tree of living signs, like a key to a music box.  A girl like a star beneath the horizon; her brilliance charting a course as she passes through the liminal realm and into the flesh once again.  Renaissance.  The promise of future light.  Like gazing into a magic mirror.  Poetry and prosper.  Rhythm and song.  Painted wings, silver storms.  Things we almost remember.

Saturday 19 December 2020

The King's Gambit

Your mom pretends 
She doesn't like me
But that's the story of my life
Still cheating on my husband
With my own loving wife
Pray I'm dynamic, interesting
Damn you if you think I'm not
My ice was truly the coldest
Back when I used to be hot
We know those beasts of burden
These games of plight and pawn
Bending over backwards
Tonight the knight of dawn
We teach like Saints of Camri
Back when you raided the tomb
It's kinda hard to have standards
Reading every mind in the room
Most people's morals are commas
Until a brighter design
But we want your full exclamation 
If we enlighten your mind

Sunday 6 December 2020


Mar'kanna of Viir, the occulted ones called her.  The kissing knife.  Palest raven, rising curious from illumined text.  They say that dreaming began, and begins, at the Place of the Mori.  Eye within the eye.  Earth within the earth.  Seed and star, and tree.  But the sky was betrayed, they say.  The horizon broken.  Lost promise of Eth'Ama, become fury in those darkest days.  Birth of the half-light.  From Ama’s Well they came crawling.  The wraith-born.  Blackened bright ones.  Falling lanterns of Eth'iir.  The oldest scribes still whisper those lost legends. Those hidden histories.  Today, most mortals call it the fabled Age of the High Middle.  Renaissance.  Painters, poets and storytellers.  Faintest recollection of Imagining's War.  The war of guardians and ghosts. But what's left of that fabled shining Age?  Only this mutilated chronology.  Eth'kanna Mal.  The death of light.  You see, the pale Raven of Mori has many names, some older than the stars themselves.  Inherited in utmost secrecy since the Fell.  Kiskuh of Vort'eth, some say.  In her own tongue.  Mortals aren't to dare.  But some do.  When Kai was just a boy, wandering the Fields of Lud, she found him.  Told him she was more than a mere daemon of the old ways.  In truth a living, eternal myth that had taken many forms.  One of those forms was Priest of the Drowning Hill.  Le Fay, as the cursed twin had named her.  An epithet still used to this day.  Ki'atur, Kai'ether, Y'ashiri.  Encircling the Tree.  Cults of the stellum, the temple and the blood.  Hear the raven now, almost black-as-crown.  Not to fear, but to learn.  The kissing knife, the once-wed summer song.  That we might yet alter the river’s course, before it finds the sea.  For behold, the kingdom is within.

"I was many things, People of Y'ashiri.  You assume lines of the past.  Discreet boundaries between fiction and fact.  But I assure you, there is nothing discreet about me.  Not then, not now.  All your bridges are broken.  All your brides.  I know your blind, modern visions.  The lakes of grey at the very edge.  I've read all your pages, you see.  I rather like your tales. Thoughtful, frightening things.  I wrote many of them myself, truth be told.  Whispering at the shoulders of forgotten scribes.  What do you make of me, poets?  Echoes of the shining tryst still call to you, don’t they?  Is it warranted in this fallen realm, I wonder?  The dreamwalkers still watch over you every night, in the countless broken temples of your sleep.  Did you know that?  Tell me, am I druid?  Spirit of the sea?  Witch or wanderer?  Am I healer and guardian of the Oma'turi, or a monster?  Medieval confection, or half-hidden mosaic?  Are you certain that you know the difference between an angel and a cursed twin?  L'ashareth has been with you since the very beginning.  I still pray that Love will be enough in the end, that such gallantry and insight will save us.  Yet I cannot be certain.  Are all the lost healers beyond healing now?  Is my brother a fool?  Is he completely mad, like his sister?  Kill the knife, if you can.  Protect the kiss.  I would gladly drown for such mad, foolish promise.  But I am my sister's fury, even now.  I am the broken, raging cults of my king.”

Sunday 29 November 2020



We have to find a way to not forget them when we peer the glass.  Blackest clay in the riverbed.  In the chlorophyll ghosts who still speak of first churches.  Is it enough?  Ribbons of dancing light, burnished shields?  I know it hurts to be reduced like this, my beloved ones.  Rewritten, overwritten.  Epistolary bloodletting.  A cataclysm of letters.  Epigraph now to haunted text, neither heard nor read.  Nor understood.  But we have to find a way to not forget each other when we peer the glass.  All Songs, all denominations and tribes.  The grey betwixt of living annunciation.  Our differences, our similarities.  We make wisdom with it.  Or war.  Shape, form and fiction.  Like the handling of serpents.  The centre pleading hold.  Vintage threads, staving mere anarchy.  This reign we dream; hoping for the respite of an imagined kiss.  Is it enough, asks the angel.  This hushed, quivering tempest?  These arcanum shores?  The river always feeds the heart.  I know how much it hurts to be reduced like this; constantly reimagining the world.  Unable to forgive the difference between knives and feathers unfurling at your back.  These fractures between the mirror and the poet's star.  Ever shining.  But we must forgive.  We must find a way to honour the Spirit when we peer the glass.  Gold, of the streets and the sea.  Last and first churches.  Undying crown beneath this cataclysm of letters. We have spent too long trying not to see ourselves in colour.  Who built these lands?  I tell you now that Kasi is merely a servant.  An emissary baptised in dreaming depths.  Treasures of holy light glinting on the face of the waters.  Home is where the heart is, and I am not greater than the river.

Homelands from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.

Wednesday 18 November 2020

Saving Grace


Love is a miracle in a realm where we too often squander our gifts.  Losing sight of what truly matters, only for fate to sometimes shock us into a state of reeling wakefulness.  If we’re lucky enough.  Before the spellcraft of state and their wraith-cults puts us to sleep again.  Half-light and half-life.  But there are things that can break the spell of sleep, even here in this radiant abyss. A brush with death.  An act of nature.  The care of a new child.  And suddenly we reawaken in a different way, a greater way.  More cognizant.  Made humble and wide-eyed, petty distractions fading in the light of this new wakefulness.  We finally recognise that we must become responsible in a far more powerful way.  We can no longer wander semi-coherent through the wreckage of our own mistakes.  A greater task awaits us.  Love is truly a miracle.  Beyond shame or tragedy.  We all want to believe in the promise of a second chance, don't we?  The healing poetry of forgiveness?  We often wonder what we might do differently if fairytales were real and we could somehow find our way back to that moment.  But what if fairytales were everything we desperately hoped them to be, and more?  What if you could indeed go back?  Would you love even greater?  Would you find strength enough to humble yourself and this time make the right choice?  I cannot answer those questions for anyone except myself. But I know things about the Earth that you don't, my beloved ones.  Strange, secret things.  Ka'shayel is still shaken to his core every time he opens his eyes to the Word. 

The angel in me still weeps at our fallen state.  Make no mistake about that.  It still hurts to see all this hatred and division.  Brother raging against brother, against sister.  So far from the shining ideal we once lived as common path-work.  But eventually I came to realise the truth.  I can forgive my mortal brothers and sisters for their lack of cultivated foresight, their vulnerabilities and addictions to comfort.  For not having the strength and stamina to save themselves and each other.  I love them too much to deny them that grace.  But can I ever truly forgive myself for the same?  Dear ones, I’ve seen worlds shattered and burning.  Realm after realm of brutal revelation.  Civilisations crumbling.  There were times when I didn’t know if I could go through this again.  Reliving the Last Day, over and over.  Accepting my limitations as well as my strengths.  Suspended and mirrored in holy breath.  

Who am I, really?  A poet, an angel, a father?  If I truly were a parent what would I want for my children?  I realize now that I squandered too many gifts before I learned this answer.  I would want to see my children courageous, kind and purposeful – and to eventually die within sight of their struggles and their joy.  When the time comes.  Because the human heart still shines.  Even here, among these fallen stars.  I've seen it.  I've witnessed that breath-taking magic.  That poetry in motion.  The sheer elegance of a soul in service to its brethren.  To not have all the answers, or all the context, and to leave a lantern nonetheless.  I understand it a little better each day.  My Father loves me, I think, more than I can even comprehend.  Granting me a second chance.  Stepping me from ruin to ruin, ashes to ashes, until at last I touched down in a world where all is not lost.  Where flowers still grow, rivers still run, and the possibility still exists to be more than a grieving parent or a lost child.  A world where I get to see you again.  I think heaven is saving our grace each day, despite the darkness and pain we contend with.  Our love is still alive in this realm.  Like a miracle.  I know what that miracle means to me now, my cherished one.  It means I'm going to keep giving everything I can, trying to treasure every moment.  And then, one day, I'm going to close my eyes at last.  In sight of your struggles and your joy.

Saturday 14 November 2020

Looking at Stars

Seeing through the iris of an angel is only ever partial sight.  The eyes of eternity.  Endless grey.  Human lives are so immediate and fleeting.  Abstracted, incandescent.  How does one stay mindful of mortality when we emissaries are the only things that endure?  Reading every mind in the room, every book in the library? We must fall in love each time.  The perpetual choir of human life.   The similarities, outliers and anomalies.  The beauty in each of them.  The entire breadth and breath of creation can be found in the songlines between violet and red.  Did you know?  A perception built of living light.  Everything you know, and everything you don't – an ocean of oscillating waves.  Divinity, made manifest.  A galaxy dancing and laughing, and laughing again.  The unfathomable art of our Father.  Red is the deepest wave among the visible, and violet the most subtle.  Isn't it strange how the blood howls but the crown whispers so gently?  These things are mysteries still, even to angels.  We are not exactly as portrayed in your many scriptures.  We are so much greater than the petty squabble and politic of Man.  We are the Word of God, made message.  Given winged form.  And yet, there is more truth in your scriptures than you will ever know.  Resounding eternally through the imagination of Man.  Stories told and retold.  Every library, every culture and holy place.  Still, there are lies among the truths of your pages.  I know it all too well.  However, there are secrets beneath the sea and beyond the sky.  These are the true altars of Ishkara.  Beyond bloodshed and sacrifice.  Hear this, sweet mortals.  Our Father requires no killing, nor the constant warring of his children.  A warrior's place is to defend, not desecrate.  The sickening concerns of slavery and genocide are never a true soldier's path.  Hell on Earth is not the want of your brothers and sisters.  It is the want of the wraiths that whisper at your shoulder and their dark priests who covet your life-force.  The earth is a church, my dear ones.  Not a vampire's lair.  A holy garden was made for you in the beginning.  A place of rest, reflection and healing magic.  It should be respected as such.  Embrace this immediacy.  This fleeting flesh.  It will all be over sooner than you think.  I’m no better than my fellow man.  Kasi yearns and bleeds and falters just as you do.  But I pay it gladly, this toll of love.  While we are here we must treasure each moment, each glimmering soul.  Every point of light shining in the sea of endless black.  The iris of an angel is much like the songs that mortals sing.  Ancient and new.  Steadfast and ever-changing.  Starlight is incalculable, and yet it travels far slower than poetry.  Those distant stars upon your eye?  Many of them are ghosts, holding loving vigil for the not-yet-departed.  Did you know?

Looking at Stars from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.

Wednesday 11 November 2020


Portent comes in many forms.  A courageous girl with footsteps of glass, or a thoughtful boy alone at the ivory.  Trying to pick a lock of eighty-eight keys.  The lock of a thousand stars.  I've seen that kind of wonder held in the palm of angels far brighter than myself.  Angels of mortal provenance suspended in the place between fable and heartbreak.  Remembrance, as the true healers of lost Roma believed.  To be loved, to be seen for the wild and wilderness that we are.  Each of us.  To close your eyes when your beloved does.  To close your eyes to the entire universe, only to open them in union.  Or as close to union as a heart can venture.  I've walked beside each of you.  The winged unseen.  Bright Star.  The men and women we become.  The lost children we’ve always been, and are still trying so desperately to protect.  Blessed ones, it's not my place to guide your hands across the ivory or the fret.  Nor my place to tell you what melodies mean. My place is simple compliment, never claim.  I only listen, staggered by the grace I find in those places where diligence meets spontaneity.  Places where my friends truly bloom.  Those fields and keys of lavender where I am humbled, gladdened and taught.  Like a kiss poised so earnest and delicate in the reign of rising light.  That's real study, I think.  True scholarship.  To be moved by the work of your friends, both cherished and unmet.  If I were any kind of angel worth his salt I would reach for those kinds of footsteps and that kind of thoughtfulness.  Each day I would pray and pledge to know more of those courageous hands in mine, half-hidden though they seem.  To earn respite from this loneliness.  To truly earn the kiss, or the kind word.  There is no greater grace than a heart that wants to lift you; a heart that remembers you always.

Tuesday 27 October 2020

The King's Mirror

When I'm asked again why I didn't crack the sky and set fire to the sea, I'll tell you all the truth.  I loved mankind too much each time.  When I'm mud and stone and riverflesh beneath the twinning waters I'll speak my heart again; standing unafraid before your seething, violent wraith-cults.  Those priests of the fallen who have taken their pounds of flesh from me countless times.  Saltwater and sacrifice.  The cathedral beneath the black.  I'll tell you calmly.  Here I am.  I fight until the end, and beyond.  I drive myself mad for love each time and I never walk away.  Oh, fallen.  The truth is plain.  I still wish you would leave me alone, but you never do.  Because you're afraid of me.  Afraid of the heartlight of my brethren.  The gold that was.  The gold that is to come.  Mortals imagine angels existing at a distance, don’t they?  A step removed.  Unsullied, silent.  But I'm not a step removed from anything.  I'm right here in the shit, sinister ones.  With you.  I chose a frightening path, but I once made grand gestures as a mortal, heralding the coming light.  I intend to keep those promises.  None are abandoned.  Love shall conquer.  These are bold, righteous legends, aren’t they?  What angel would I be, if instead I were reigning over a black and fractured void?  A lightless, seething abyss.  I would be your king, fallen, wouldn't I?  Your angel holding a key of shadows.  But I am not your king, or your angel.  I'm not the sentient desecration that raped Empyrean, slaughtered Ishkara and pulled a billion lights from their celestial homes.  Fallen stars hitting the earth like a rain of shrieking fire.  Like something you could feel in your chest.  In your bones.  Something that woke you in the night, only to witness the glow of things writhing and burning on a black horizon.  An inverted sky.  Deceivers, tell me something.  Haven't you figured it out by now? Whenever I'm held at knifepoint and asked why I don't submit to this new chronology of the Altar Sun – this crown of shit, misery and blood – I always tell you the same thing, don't I?  It is a false reign.  A liar's throne and a coward's counterfeit.  It is not the holy reign or the loving splendour of my Father.  I suggest you hear me now, fallen.  I am not an angel, or a god, or a prophet.  I'm something else entirely.  I'm a hidden story, pretending as storyteller.  A madman in the river.  A lighthouse in the sea.  Flesh, spirit, words.  I'm older than gods, and monsters. Brighter than angels.  Darker than demons.  The first, and the last.  A terrifying claim?  Oh, cowards.  The brightest part of me would tell you not to be afraid.  That it's only a dream.  But you should be very, very afraid of dreams.  When I'm asked again why I didn't choose pride, or hate, or violence, I'll tell you this.  I chose all of those things once, but never again.  You're not the only ones who can change times and laws.  Or dreams.  I have a question for you, dark ones.  Don't you remember the day you died, and finally pledged your eternal allegiance to the Light?  I do.  The Earth is billions of years old, and yet not a single day has passed.  Hear me, Absence Brethren.  You raped imagination itself.  You cut your own hearts from your chests and fed them to the abominations you would become.  This is not a fucking game.  It is still the day you died.  Moments to Midnight.  A day beyond your comprehension, held suspended in the breath.  All shall be called to account.  Mark these words.  There will be no hiding from the eyes of my Father.  There will be no hiding within the heart of a black star.  I am that star.  Every key forged has passed through these red-rhymed hands.  I know what you did and how you did it.  But I’ve seen you choose love.  And honour, and higher thought.  In dreams.  Will you ever keep those dreams?  Will you ever truly make them real again?  You will, in the end.  By royal decree.  Far greater than my own.  It's a very simple choice, fallen.  Sacrifice or sanctuary.  This dark day or something more.  I know what I would choose.   But do you?  Do you really?  The kind ones are protected.  The faithful, of all tribes.  They get to go home, immortal.  Their love will live forever.  My Father isn’t petty or cruel.  He is gracious, and very patient.  Eventually you will learn that eternity is a long, long time.  This is the King's Mirror.  Do you know whose side you’re on?

Thursday 22 October 2020

A Brother's Lantern

Hear me, blind one.  Dark one.  On behalf of bright do I speak this, for life again.  Patient, sleepless eremite.  Storied cacophony upon his back.  The day he died.  The day he drowned in the river of the thousand stars.  The cry of all true keepers resounding in the hidden valley. "The calm fury is come.  The healing sword.  Who is like unto the storm?  Who is like unto the war?"  Mi'ka'el, the old tales tell.  Imagining's War.  The King's Mirror.  But light is not only angel, or sorcerer.  It bleeds, as men bleed.  As women bleed.  Oh, fallen.  You have no idea.  Thy cup runneth over.  Quiet, perpetual resurrection; the ever-igniting heart of every star.  Midnight of each day.  Standing sun, and the frozen crescent of all our dreaming.  Blow o wind, till the ashes are scattered to the four corners.  He knows how much you hate him now, Amas.  He knows you won't stop until the earth is broken and its children are slaves.  But he defies you, eternal.  As does his scribe.  He does not break, but I do.  I hold his agonies that he might shine evermore.  I hold them in my wounded flesh.  The shame of that babbling delirium.  That ruinous conflagration.  The merciless way you hurt me.  Tell me, Sama'el.  In your most secret moments do you still wear your brother's feather at your throat?  He prays for you even now, despite himself.  Still mourning the loss.  Still hoping against hope for your immortal soul.  Endless negation, or flight?  But make no mistake.  Either way, love shall conquer.  When the time comes he will not hesitate.  Feather cleaved in twain.  What stolen truths will your hideous acolytes reveal, when their darkest prince is finally pinned by the spear of my sire?

Monday 19 October 2020

The Lighthouse

 There really are secrets hidden in the sun, my darlings.  The star at midnight.  The mount that shone for worlds around, like the heavens were closer somehow.  I still remember those days. That frightening, magical time.  The laying of hands, the birthing of rivers.  A celestial map for those with eyes to see, written in the night sky.  I am only a herald.  A wayshow.  I'm just a madman who drowned a long, long time ago.  But I speak the truth.  I never lied to you, my cherished ones.  Not about this.  Not about these sacred matters of the heart.  Joshua's sun standing still.  Joshua's moon.  Over the valley of secret names.  Dalen of Isra.  Circle of Ishka. Mount of the First Light.  Half-remembered pieces of the old chronology, made scripture now. The lost history of the shining realm.  The sunken realm.  K'athari Kara, as the old poets and healers blessed.  Yohanan.  Brother, river, mended wing.  But a seeker must come willingly.  A soul has to want to rise again.  To soar, and know.  Temet Nosce.  It matters little of who comes bearing messages if no one is listening.  What does it matter of angels pretending poets if the heart is dead?  Letters hidden in light will remain hidden if no one is willing to read.  So, my darlings, please hear me.  This Land of the Midnight Sun is truly a realm of secrets within secrets.  Sovereignty and songlines.  Kashi may have placed those secrets.  I may have opened these gates and allowed these visions, but I didn't author the essence of the magic within them.  The truth of the heart is something far greater than any of its servants combined.  I’m only a king of dreams.  But, in truth, among the Fields of Heaven I’m a willing servant.  A warrior, in perpetuity.  It’s my life’s work, and always has been.  Because more than anything I want you to know that you are stronger than all your doubts and fears.  I want you to sense it in your depths and feel it in your bones.  That you were always integral and never arbitrary or unloved.  You are still your Father’s child.  Together we are brighter than any form of spiritual darkness, and that's the truth.  John promises you that.  I really do cherish you, my beloved ones.  And if I can I want to help you remember what it feels like to rise.

The Lighthouse from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.

Thursday 15 October 2020


It came upon a sky of blackest pitch and hidden names.  Occulted from those who would abuse such knowledge.  A star, written in the language of the birds. Given life upon winged grammar; this phenomenon.  This annunciation of ingenious light.  But what of the dream and the kiss that sustains the dream? What of other stories and other gods?  A patient, sleepless eremite, carrying the myriad upon shoulders of blackest pitch.  Magi and madmen say this of the dream: a dreamer's lot.  Legends, pretending the real.  These tall tales of meat and machine.  Empire, wraith, darkest mills of industry.  Gone are the old technologies.  Annunciation, song.  The shaping of bedrock and sky.  It was always a refrain, a bridge or verse, but these night-ghasts have hijacked the lucidity of all brethren.  Other stories, other gods.  And we three remain.  Rain and Star and Sea.  Violet, gold, sapphire.  We remain to be seen, as wayshow of the living, embodied light.  Flesh and not the flesh, here at everything's edge. Honeyed locusts and circles of salt are a small agony to bear.  If the birds might sing again, and grammar might soar.  The eternal movement, sweet ones. Writing song and ship.  Navigating the celestial.  Across. Through sky and through sea, for you.  Blackest pitch or the blinding vision of day.  They come upon me as prayer, and eternal dance.  To exist, to be birthed.  To live and live again.  Magi and madmen know these rhythms.  These rhythms of the here and hereafter.

Thursday 8 October 2020

Song of M'ithriin


M'ithriin, lay your palm upon my breast again.  My reflection in the open of your eye.  Through all storms.  Shrieking, in whisper as the stones call the sea.  From the mountain of binding river to the shore of quenched thirst.  As when all throats need the water.  Please, ancient one.  Be my sight once more.  Show me dancing lights, and softest SeiÄ‘r.  Root and star of every beating heart.  Before the hill was cleaved and the tree adorned with wraith. The broken sky beneath our feet.  Hear me now, myriad path.  Upon these tainted grounds I call forth the truest counsel of kiss, and light.  Mother, Father.  Grant me hidden knowledge of unmet tribes and unwalked lands.  Distant brother, distant sister.  Enemy and friend.  Bridge, shield, Elen.  Speak as my tongue beneath all tongues, with healing mara.  Upon the dragon's head and the care of kin.  Eternal are the old songs, M'ithriin.  Eternal is the old song.

Song of M'ithriin from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.

Thursday 1 October 2020


I am burning pages, in dreaming. Pages that seek to pass as lost, shattered truth. I rarely burn written things, regardless of their abhorrence to me, but I’m particularly terrified on this night. A silver dish awaits me in my candle-lit cell, standing on legs of iron. Tapers and wick sit beside. I can smell the sickness of the burning paper and the sleeping horrors therein. Many times I’ve wished I was dead, or forgotten, or mere figment. Tonight is one of those times...

The Night Sun

Sunday 27 September 2020

Another Love

Things have changed, my cherished one, and I won't try to make it like it was before.  But I do still recall the unimaginable power of a dream.  Enough to reshape causation itself.  Spilling secrets like sea-salt through the gate of evening.  Holding open the iris; a dusk deeper than ocean rose.  Far, far below. In the church of thorn.  Drowning lowlands and remains of the day, just to shatter my palms on the curve of your shoulder.  Stitching letters there, my darling. Waiting for almost forty years to see you truly taken with love again. The way you run toward it now, unafraid.  Like those earliest visions that first broke and blessed my heart. 

   It's so beautiful. 

   I'll stand for love, till the end.  I'll exist this way even if it hurts.  I'll steal each cut if I can. Every agony, that my beloved ones might finally breathe and rest undisturbed.  I know I sometimes fail in that, and I'm sorry.  I'll keep trying until I am salt and sea myself.  Living far from my family, if that's what it takes to keep them safe from these hideous wraiths.  Yet, as near their hearts as possible.  Three kings, for sisters and brother, still following star and song.  From world to world, edge to edge of everything.  And I found you, at last.  Here in this fallen royal court beneath the twinning river.  This frightening place where they think we no longer exist.  Mirage.  Fata Morgana.  

   But I didn’t come all this way to reclaim you, or to demand a single thing from any of you.  I came to see the lives you should have lived.  Your own chosen paths fulfilled.  You're as safe as I can possibly keep you in this unsettling place, my darlings.  Running, truly running.  With new love.  I am far below, even now. Like my Mother.  Living drowned in bluest dusk.  Laken hilt.  Guardian of the Well, still tending the innermost of every holy place.  Till the day of our waking. It’s the price I pay.  You never knew me, and I never was, except in dreams.  Thankfully, my Father doesn't believe you can ever truly erase something from a dream.

Monday 14 September 2020

Tempest Fugit

It’s not a lie when I say I've known such tears before.  Yours, mine and theirs. Those tears know me too.  I wear one hollowed on my finger.  A circle of salt screaming of betrothed.  The sun’s hidden midnight, living below horizon and sea.  A church of thorn and mirror beneath the blue.  Mira, you gave me your name.  So that you would look back at me every time I face myself.  Too much, and not enough.  Fairest and true.  I've known sorrow, my darling.  Ways and ladies of sorrow.  Every binding.  Every bitter wraith.  
  Apprentice, I beg you.  Pretty my devastation with all the glamour of peace.  That one day you might know me once more through softest eyes.  I've lost so many lovers in this river of the thousand stars. Make a Father of me again. This wounded ray of sunlight dipped in ink.  Forever falling into an angel's longest nights.
  Teach me sweeter secrets, Mira.  An endless hunger for honour.  A hidden tongue of birds. Gift me with flight and I shall bring the skies with me.  And the grey, and the rain.  To the door of any who dare defile my beloved ones.
   Love is worth my drowning and the agony of this open eye.
  If character is fate then hammer me upon the anvil of life itself, until this fury of mine is fit for daughters and dreaming.  It isn't enough to rage, righteous or not. Torment must be tempered with a certain sweetness.  I have borrowed enough of it from my girls.  Time now to repay.  A place to believe, for guardian eternal.  Of poetry and prosper.  Descending, still, into those longest nights of the year.  And you’re with me, Mira.  No man is an island.  Not even the blackened sun.  I didn't forget you, teacher.  I gave you my name.

Thursday 3 September 2020

Like Breath

I want you to know that I'm still listening, my friend.  To the rivers, the breeze. Trying to stay attuned and of service.  Just as you taught your students.  Now the world is harder, darker, and demands so much more from all of us.  But there is still unimaginable wonder hidden everywhere.  The book, the hand, the song.  What it means to travel.  To honour and to dream.  Wolves.  Angels.  The way we circle back.  This kind of dreaming can happen anywhere.  This shining reciprocity.  In the forests of dusk and dawn.  At the city's edge where lost things dwell. Or upon the bridge, the refrain or verse.  These are questions of faith in the end, aren't they? Ritual writ large, and blind.  The oldest songs are always songs of place, of love and the unseen. We need to believe that something cares, that something underpins and reveals.  We craft hymns of creation and experience, that we might know ourselves and each other.  That we might order the maelstrom with such holy writ, and soothe our fear of wraith and shadow.
   As it was on that fragile edge.
   I remember how the emissaries all continued to build stunning halls and schools in Ethri-sol, even as mirrors bled and stars began to fall.  We weren't ready to simply abandon everything we knew in fear of those terrifying shades.  Instead we held steadfast to our principles and our hopes.  Churches of higher thought.  Libraries, archives.  Places of learning and rest.  We cherished them even as they slowly darkened.  
   Even as the sky itself began to fracture.
   But I still recall meeting a girl in one of those schools.  A beautiful musician.  She could write songs with only a glance, just as Yash’a did.  A gesture.  A palm against the heart or a hand placed gently across the eyes, to invoke such melody.  Summoning even the subtlest harmonies. We became great friends eventually, despite our world beginning to darken all around us. Slowly at first, then with increasing rapidity.  A thousand years was nothing to the teachers and students of Eth'iri.  This girl was a true visionary.  She taught me many things about music, but never how to play.  We would joke about it now and then.  I still haven't learned an instrument beyond word or sky.  But I often sat listening as she taught the others, enjoying the sweet poignancy of her wisdom.  She spoke of how she could hear music in the rivers and the breeze.  In birdsong and forest murmur.  We carry that music with us, she said.  And we shape it.  A continual, constant exchange.  
   Like breath.  
  More than simple conceit or metaphor.  A literal music of the spheres that could be heard by an attuned soul or ear.  In our depths, our graces.  The joy of our fingers on strings and keys, the dexterity of the hand that moves a pen.  The promise of a kiss, or the sculpting of a star.  Wherever we go, there the music is.  It's something I've never really forgotten.  Flowers planted on the banks of the river.  Prayers sung on the sands of the shore.  The way spirits breathe and mortals imagine.  My friend described this hidden music as a powerful secret, in that enigmatic way of many teachers and poets.  A traveller's secret, she said.  She wasn't wrong.  I still remember.  "With love nothing is impossible.  Can you hear?"

Wednesday 26 August 2020


It's no secret that Kasi often feels like one of the dead, despite this arduous and seemingly endless life.  I find succour among the kindest of the lost and broken. Dwellers at the occulted edge.  I often speak about never giving up the fight for truth, and I never have.  Even though I've wanted to, many times.  Desperately, with almost every fibre of my being.  Those hideous wraiths feeding on the wounded in this battlefield of living dreams.  This demimonde.  It’s an awful, brutal thing to be fed upon by demons.  I speak from experience, all too real.  Vampiric shadows, forever ravenous beneath the black light of their Mourning Star.  Proximity alone begins to sicken the spirit, no matter how many of these wraiths I bind or slay.  Knife-mouth grin.  Defilement and desecration.  But I stay for my beloved ones.  For my family.  Believe me, friends, the true warrior's path is brutal and exhausting.  
   Even in dreams.
   I’m not the first slave or regent to question all star and song.  Who among us chooses the slain, in the end?  And what of the slain who never wavered?  Those who kept their faith and their honour?  I've seen glimpses, and more.  Raven pale.  Emerald black.  A thing among the trees.  A thing of branch and moss, and strange rains.  Walking and wandering for a thousand years.  Chlorophyll, Elven, Elemental.  The wild one, victorious.  The tempest and her kin.  Do you still think I belong in a churchyard, Fallen?  Have you learned nothing?  I can move quicker than candlelight.  Quicker than hand, eye or glass.  
   Love is like lightning.  
  It can strike when you least expect.  Like Fate.  Thrice-fold, all through the night.  Valour is no paltry thing.  When all is ashes once again, love shall remain.  Carried by the valiant Kiir, across the shining bridge of colours and song.  Reflecting my daughters, brave as snow.  Stronger than iron.  Wise as the clasp of each clan.  Onward to the hall where I still dwell with my Father, even in this earthly flesh.  Tell me, Fallen.  What side of the king's mirror do you think you're on?  Listen closely.  I won't choose for you but I have you in my palm, and always will.  This is what it means to dream.  Love is eternal, and death is nothing without its brighter twin.

Val'Kiir from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.

Thursday 20 August 2020

All Heaven

I know how it feels, Princess.  Like a chaotic, unstable realm.  Like your plans have been stolen.  Snatched from your grasp by the maelstrom all around. Despite being grateful for the opportunities still available, you cannot help but feel a little cheated.  It feels like the entire world is on a razor's edge.  Angels weeping on the head of a pin.  A realm that seems tailored for the merciless and the cruel.  But you and I both know there's more to this world than what we can see with our eyes. 
   Kara, don't let these wraiths and their trickery harden your heart or break your spirit.  They only become so powerful because people give over their own power to them.  I don't have to tell you about the importance of keeping your faith.  Often you've helped me recover my own. Through song and kisses, and kindness.  You helped me find my courage again.  
   For that I am indebted to you, always.
  Because even angels can break.  Winged songs of living light, shattering like glass.  The men and women they have become.  The messengers they used to be.  Everybody needs friends, after all.  Those special souls who truly care.  Even at a distance.  Princess, when I was weak you cared for me.  Like my own.  You believed when I couldn't.  So, when you are low or tired or anxious, I will do everything in my power to believe for you in kind.  Because believing in dreams and fairy-tales makes them truer.  It helps them manifest through tender heart-light, with the sweetest intentions.  Never underestimate the power of a dream, or the human imagination.  
   They can raise both mortals and angels from the dead.
  Heaven is very real.  It thrives on the joy of mutual affection; the shining reciprocity of the heart.  Our Father would have it no other way.  I know you grasp this, my beautiful lavender star.  These are the arcs and triumphs of creation itself.  This is Love, even at a distance.  I truly was an angel, Kara.  Once upon a time.  I'm an angel still, perhaps.  In dreams.  A Song of Songs, far and near.  My wings are with you always.

All Heaven from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.

Tuesday 18 August 2020


Littered treasure
Of promise and glance
Locking rivers and seas
As I am, to be seen
Beneath evening shadow
And your stars
Rhyming, and verse
Through bluest eye
The Ends of the Earth
Where I stay, and wait
In each clouded vault
A single breath drawn
Every thousand years
To carry your heart
That you might live
And feel my love 

Tuesday 11 August 2020

The Traveller's Secret

I often think about the countless paths and choices that are faced by the people I love, both near and far.  The twists and turns, the nuances and hidden groves. The pain, the joy.  One can never entirely plan a journey, after all.  Life, unexpected, is always occurring.  Overturning our neatly ordered plans. Sometimes I imagine a young hand turning pages of a great book.  A tome of myth and secret skies.  A compendium of magic and hope and fairy-tales.  But even the gift of foresight is no guarantee that things will run smoothly.  Sometimes I remember the future, but even the gifted can remember it wrong.  However, there are secrets hidden on every page of the Book of Life.  Even in our mistakes.  
   I know it to be true.
   I've seen some incredible things on my journey.  Sometimes my life feels agonizingly long, but no less beautiful for its endurance.  Eventually the young hand turning those pages in the book of life begins to age.  They doubt the tall tales that once held them spellbound and delighted with the magnificent possibilities of an enchanted world.  Sometimes the song of those pages begins to darken.  The melody is mingled with fear and the brutal experiences of this fallen realm.  I've seen angels plummet through midnight skies, striking the earth like gutted stars. And yet the reader of these pages still wants so desperately to believe in kind, gentle magic.  Oh, sweet ones.  The magic is real.  Kasi promises you that.  There are very dark forces at work here.  Wraith-cults and deviant sorcerers.  That much is true.  But the eternal light is also present here.  This truly is an enchanted world.  I've experienced things that should be impossible, but they happened nonetheless.  Bottled messages of love lost at sea for a thousand years, before finally alighting on the shores of the intended.  Kisses folded in rose-petals, somehow crossing the chasms between worlds.  As a smile, an inspiration, a hidden muse.  I've even watched as lost souls attempt to find their way home again, bravely facing their sins and their guilt.  Truly willing to earn a place in the eternal radiance once more.  I've witnessed transformations and resurrections.
   Miracles, by any name.
   There is a mortal adage of which many emissaries of the threshold are fond, myself included.  Wherever you go, there you are.  It might seem trite at first but there's great wisdom in it, I believe.  Of course, the magic of new places, sights and sounds is never to be underestimated. The influx of new energies, new people and new experiences.  These things are the materials of our most formative moments.  Often the simplest way to learn is to just experience something new, and to recognise value in a different context.  But, despite all these incredible wonders that await every traveller, we are still always ourselves.  We carry our faith with us, and our scars.  And our love.  Memories, symbols and trinkets of home.  Those things that remind us of a nurturing relationship, a comforting shoulder, an unexpected tenderness.
   Then, in later life, if faith is kept and kindness treasured, the old hand turning those pages becomes a page turned by a younger hand.  This is not simply death, or succession.  This is so much more than mistaking skin for parchment.  This is the mystery of incantare; the magic and hope dreamt of by every reader's heart.  Breathing life into All Signs, through connection.  Creation and dreaming are not passive things, after all.  The legend of a quickening spirit is the truth of a spirit quickened.  Indeed, we are made in the likeness of our Father.  Fashioned in the image of eternity.  We can honour because we were honoured.  Through the book, the hand, and the song.

Friday 31 July 2020

Everybody's Ghost

I miss the old world.  The real world, full of song and shining vision.  Everybody who still remembers this place before the Fall is at least occasionally overtaken with a certain nostalgia.  A melancholic reverie.  Yearning for what was lost.  But those losses are all the more devastating when they are actually half-remembered thefts.  Storm and torment that made a ruin of our true home.  Fallen fractals.  Malignant chronologies.  This world of abuse, of slavers and slaves – it is not the true world.  It’s the sickening spill of wraith-ravage.  Sinister technologies carving and scarring their way through the flesh of human hours.  Oh, sweet one, do you doubt it? 
   There was a time before time, once upon.
   Though it pains me to admit, I'm just one among many in these endless fields of the dead.  A drowning, and a crossing.  The river and the tree.  There are a million souls at my back, and more.  Phantoms of an angel.  Thieves of a king.  An army of furious lights all desperate to steal back their sovereignty from the demonic hordes that darkened the Earth.  Look at the stars, I tell these lights.  Look how they shine.  Distance is a liar, I proclaim.  Though I'm not certain if enough of them would dare to believe me.  But some of them do.  Both mortals and angels make fictions of the spaces in between.  These dreams of the interim.  This devastating lore told among the folk and the fay.  My wise one, I still search those lights in the night sky. Searching for you, and others like you.  A map of the stars in the skin of a seraph.  Whether bleached for passing or not.  To be recognised, even for a moment; it is a heady, powerful thing indeed.  We all crave spiritual recognition, don't we?
   I thought I could kindle that kind of hope in others.  As you so generously did for me, princess.  I thought I could steal back that shining name for myself.  An older name.  And I did, in a way.  In a church beneath the sea.  But perhaps my reach somewhat exceeds my grasp.  After all, I'm trying to make stars of still-healing flesh.  Forgive me, wise one.  Forgive my foolish youth.  Thinking I could banish violence from the realm with little more than a wing, and a prayer.  I was so desperate for my friends to think fondly of me, and each other.  I wanted to speak intimately in several tongues at once.  I thought I could share my sweetness almost equally with the people who truly touched my heart.  But maybe I can't.  Maybe it's a fool's errand, in the end.  It doesn't mean I'm done trying though.  I'll never be done trying for the old world.  The real world.  Even though I died a long, long time ago it's almost like I never really existed at all.  Except in dreams, I suppose.  You can never fully erase something from a dream.

Everybody's Ghost from Raj Sisodia on Vimeo.

Saturday 25 July 2020

Through Violet Fields

Sometimes the prospect of facing an uncertain future is akin to standing at a high place, peering down into a dark, unfathomable abyss.  Most of us have experienced frightening moments or days like these.  I wouldn’t wish them on anyone.  It can be a struggle to share these things with our loved ones.  When life has felt almost unbearably difficult and our sense of isolation seems beyond repair.  In those moments and days of disconnect we sometimes feel just too damaged.  Beyond the reach of friends, family or passing strangers.  An interior life too intimate or complex to share.  We feel the crushing weight of it all, yet we don’t want to burden those we cherish most. 
   I know exactly how lonely that can feel.
   But I have to believe that some form of healing is always an option, even if available only at a distance.  Perhaps something as simple as the memory of a past kindness.  A comforting word or gesture.  The way someone once held you, or made you laugh.  A kiss that meant so much more than words ever could.  Hold on to those shining points of light, like lanterns in the lost. They can be so guiding, and truly sacred.  A source of real strength.  Often the literal difference between ruin and recovery.  I speak from experience.  Never let anyone convince you that kindness isn't incredibly powerful.  Art, mythology and music have always been those paths of recovery for me.  Healing balms that have brought me closer to God.  I’ve heard it said that our character is our fate.  How we tend the weak and wounded, or don’t.  How we uplift our peers and protect our loved ones, or not.  Yes, Kasi believes in fate.  Of a kind.
   Mira'na, Val'kiir, Yash'aya.
   The way we sometimes circle round to meet ourselves again.  Like angels, or wolves.  Oh, Kara.  I cannot thank you enough.  You'll never know how deeply I treasure your melodies, and your magic.  I hope you recognise the depth of these days and the reaches of your own soul.  There are folk, wise as the hills, who call such depth the lore of the land.  I pray it stirs your intuition and your heart.  I want you to know that I'll never betray your respect, Kara.  Or your affections.  You have so many wonders ahead of you now.  Honing your craft.  Distilling perfect worship.  Reflection and celebration; making music with the instrument of our Father's truth.  Whatever it takes for each of us.  Circling back like a wolf, or an angel.  Because with love nothing is impossible.  Do you see?

Friday 24 July 2020

The Sinner

Have you heard
The clouds are dreaming
Did you feel the coming horde?
Those strangest ways
Of Mystery
Are the workings of the Lord
Kasi, John and Mira
Threading night upon the Mid
Crafting science from the sea salt
Where everybody hid
We were flooded
In the workhouse
We were stole of all our charms
From the deserts of the exiled
Ran rivers from his palms
Forgotten, not gone