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 (29)
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Chapter XVII: The Sovereign of Shadows
The wind shrieked, calling me through the hollow arches of my empire, and shared the whispers of those from which I had long departed. They did not capitulate, they did not bend the knee—those stubborn flames in their unyielding commitment who were steadfast in grisly devotion to my cause even while I drifted into infinite nothingness. I stand now before the stripped down bones of my empire, their magnificence reduced to chambers of resonating echo and thrones of dust. *Why have I returned?* The question coils in my heart like the serpent of eternal regret. Perhaps it is the burden of promises I once scarred into the flesh of memory now bleeding through the cracks of time. Or perhaps it is the truth that solitude, even from this frayed kingdom, is a reprieve from the honeyed mumble of humankind. Humanity—how shameless a pantomime! They murmur constantly of virtues they loathe, and in the very next breath, dive into the sins of their own disdain. Their laugh, a knife—that roasts, and their kindness, a mask stuck to rotten flesh. I have tasted their "compassion," a goblet of vinegar, and spit it back into oblivion. They are the architects of their own suffering, bringing offerings of opinions about the innocence of gutting like lambs to a slaughterhouse. Weakness masquerades as strength in their world—a monstrous breeding from the bones of gentle chitterers.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH11 months ago in Psyche
"Sightless Stars and Scarlet Ink: The Unseen Love of Ada and Layth"
Letter I – From Ada Manssouri to Layth Soufi Casablanca, 14 August 1942 My Dearest Layth, This evening, with the call to prayer still reverberating in my ears, I draw my fingers along those engravings on the parchment which read out your name. Although my left eye is shrouded in darkness, to me, you look elaborately exotic—the twitch of your smile, the inflection in your voice when you mention the stars. Remember that night we took a walk on the roof? You told me the constellations while flexing your grip around my palm. From the stories you narrated, it seemed like they were woven together with magic. You mentioned that Orion’s belt was a bridge between souls, and I swear the universe shifted to make us feel closer to each other.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH11 months ago in Poets
