LUCCIAN LAYTH
Bio
L.LUCCIAN is a writer, poet and philosopher who delves into the unseen. He produces metaphysical contemplation that delineates the line between thinking and living. Inever write to tellsomethingaboutlife,but silences aremyway ofhearing it.
Stories (34)
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Lost Between Mirrors and Time
Here Luccian Layth is reflecting on what the self may be re-refracted in its mirror, between trial and betrayal, between inner death and inner light, the existential question takes place towards eternity, nothingness, and the Creator. It is a poetic excursion, between suspicion and definite affirmation, between obscurity and radiance, in which the way itself is the creature and the creature is the way.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH4 months ago in Writers
"The Resident of Pain"
I am not a blank page, but the remains of a book which was not written and burned. To me no explanation wants... I have no presumptions about necessitating explanation. I am in this sound which has not softened. and the features that have not been made to smile. I do not tidy up my mess, but leave it a monument of what I have experienced. Any of my silences is a tale, and everything in my eyes turns the temporal and superficial. I am not a passer-by of pain... but a resident of it, I know it as I know my name... And I purchase it as picking up an ugly fate. I do not seek salvation, or raise my head towards the sky. I am the son of the heavy earth, and sister of primeval solitude. I already know something about darkness, and I shake my hands with it every single night and never tremble... and I know how to stare at it without asking to be lit... I am no beast that could be argued... but perceived... and feared.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH4 months ago in Poets
The First Night: A Symphony of Collapse
Nothing... My surroundings are all in the dark. There is no escape Only an eternal solitude, But here, this world is very close though. I have a fine veil around me... Thongs of black and white, red. And at times, grey. I do not know where to flee, This is the whirlpool of the time, Sucking at the ringing of our bones. We, the race of humans Not angels, not beasts But he, man, lost in his bubble dreams, Walking creations of trembling fancies. And yet… Our layer is depth insulated. There we were buried in the rubble. Some of us Their hearts had simply dissipated. So how am I to know? I am but a human like you. I’ve wandered. I’ve mistaken. I’ve been wounded. My blood has been her instead of tears. Still, my voice runs dry, However, my veins are sore, However, my blood satisfies the thirst Of my body, And still… My scars gather themselves. I live yet under the rubble. My voice keeps on passing out in the wind. Not silent, But loud… Appeals to the souls, already dead, And others… Lost.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH4 months ago in Poets
