Lente Scura

@lentescura

Pagina Blusky ufficiale di Lente Scura Artista Digitale e Illustratore www.lentescura.net

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Lente Scura@lentescura· 22d

Gravity

Gravity calls.

It twists.

It overturns.

An ancient, wondrous engine,
which, like the confectioner's wheel,
draws forth
the hidden fibers of my being,
until I am no longer
within the familiar garment
of myself.

I observe
my own ruin
with that strange tenderness
reserved for things
already slipping
into memory.

I desired only
to drink
the bitterness
of stars
folding inward
upon themselves.

To behold
those sovereign fires
relinquish their dominion
and descend
into the silent abyss
from which,
perhaps,
they first arose.

To immerse myself
in a darkness
forged
from extinguished light.

There I would descend,

beneath wandering islands
whose trembling rays
of golden moonlight
fall upon the waters,
too fragile
to follow me
into the depths.

To swim
through seas
that still preserve
the warmth
of vanished suns,
as though memory itself
were more enduring
than flame.

There I shall remain,

long after
the last star
has faded
from your eyes,

long after
the heavens
have forgotten
their own brightness.

For that abyss
knows neither
shore
nor ending.

It receives every light,

and yet
is never filled.

-Lente Scura

Lente Scura@lentescura· Jul 5

Tra Maschera e Oblio Modello: Elisabetha Collura di Lente Scura Diritto d'autore #lentescura, #digitalart, #gothic, #surreal, #digitalillustration, #painting, #fantasy

Lente Scura@lentescura· Jul 5

Dream of the Crow

The ice has a shifting melody—
a wounded beast
begging for collapse
through the years.

Sealed beneath winter sheets,
something suddenly broke free,
exhaling the reverse of light,
rewriting the body from the marrow outward.

What remained of the dragon
rose into a raven with soot-black wings,
bearing a tongue too immense for its mouth.

Something older than breath
had chosen me as its instrument.

And sleep opened a hidden land
where visions fed me on stars.

Until my form
forgot its boundaries.

All that I had called "I"
was swept away by a bankless river,
dark as spilled ink,
so swift it carried away even silence.

-Lente Scura

Lente Scura@lentescura· Jul 4

Another Country

There is a country
that appears only after dusk,
stitched from the loose threads
of things left unsaid.

Its rivers are made
of cooled breath.
Its trees bear pale fruit
that bruises at the touch of memory.

Even the birds
fly as though carrying fragments of yesterday
to line their nests—
a patchwork of memory.

We have wandered there
without noticing.
The road dissolved beneath us,
grain by grain,
until there was only
the strange softness
of walking through distance itself.

Your face arrives
the way the moon does
under deep water—
whole,
but altered by the weight
of what lies between.

I call out.
The sound opens
like a white flower in winter,
petal after petal,
then folds itself shut
before it reaches you.

Something invisible
has been growing around us.

Not a wall.

More like frost
finding every vein in a window,
silvering the clear places
until the world becomes
its own reflection.

It gathers
at the edges of your shoulders,
uncertain whether
to cross.

I think there must be
a seam somewhere—
a loose stitch
in the fabric of this silence—
but every thread I touch
unravels into another horizon.

And still
there is this delicate brink,

thin as the edge
of a leaf holding rain,
sharp as ice
forming beneath clear water,
vast as the breath
between two sleeping animals

who dream,
perhaps,
of the same forest,

yet wake
with its branches
growing in different directions,

neither hearing
the roots beneath.

-Lente Scura

Lente Scura@lentescura· Jul 3

Nostalgia
Nostalgia is no wave.

It is salt under the skin,
a blue bruise learning my name.
It sleeps beneath my ribs,
patient as rust,
waiting for the smallest silence
to bloom.

Youth is a hungry mouth.
It swallows all,
even the light itself.

Now I peel myself
like old wallpaper from the walls of memory.
Beneath each strip,
another face,
another promise
left breathing in the dark.

Responsibility grew quietly—
not a crown,
but wire.
It stitched the heart shut
with hands that looked like my own.

At night the past
fills with water.

The rooms swell.
The doors forget their hinges.
Ghosts arrive wearing my childhood
like borrowed dresses,
their hems dripping years.

They do not accuse.
They stand at the foot of the bed,
holding the small bright things
I abandoned
to become someone useful.

Outside, the tide keeps its counsel.
Inside, it climbs my throat,
and every breath tastes
of something almost remembered,
almost forgiven—
my own first name.

-Lente Scura

Lente Scura@lentescura· Jun 20

La Regina delle Maschere Modello: Ginevra Viviana Puma di Lente Scura Diritto d'autore #lentescura, #digitalart, #gothic, #surreal, #digitalillustration, #painting, #fantasy

Lente Scura@lentescura· Jun 17

Fading

There's that weight.
It presses into your belly,
A mass of cold stones,
One after another,
Silent and stubborn things.

They fill you.

They shape you—
A crooked puzzle,
Pieces forced together the wrong way,
An abstract ruin scattered across the kitchen table.

The lamp hums.

The tea stains the cup.
The jam glistens on the toast
Like something preserved beyond your desire.

Outside, the lights flicker and flicker,
Nervous stars tied to strings.

They pour over you
As you drink Time
In bitter sips.

It flows over your skin,
Over the sharp corners,
Over the places that once held and tore.

Slowly,
It smooths you.

Once jagged, now smooth.
The edges lose their name.

And you—

You become something molded,
Polished by having survived.

Then,
You slip away.

-Lente Scura

Lente Scura@lentescura· Jun 15

La Corsa Modello: Ingrid Nilsenson di Lente Scura Diritto d'autore #lentescura, #digitalart, #gothic, #surreal, #digitalillustration, #painting, #fantasy

Lente Scura@lentescura· Jun 12

La Luna Nei Tuoi Occhi Modello: Silvana Catalano di Lente Scura Diritto d'autore #lentescura, #digitalart, #gothic, #surreal, #digitalillustration, #painting, #fantasy

Lente Scura@lentescura· Jun 11

Carnevale e Morte (aggiornata) Modello: Elisabetha Collura di Lente Scura Diritto d'autore #lentescura, #digitalart, #gothic, #surreal, #digitalillustration, #painting, #fantasy

Lente Scura@lentescura· Jun 9

Golden Liquor

Summer pours into me—
golden liquor,
that runs its luminous tongue
over the wet stones.
The street unfolds.

From window to window,
white sheets rise on ropes,
little souls escaped from the body,
that swell and deflate.

The wind brushes their edges.
I go with them—
a fragment of cloud,
unbound from the blue.

I remain suspended for an instant
in that vast enameled cup of the sky
before the day,
with its gaping, shining mouth,
swallows me whole.

-Lente Scura

Lente Scura@lentescura· Jun 9

Il Passaggio Dell'estate Modello : dollydollprincess di Lente Scura Diritto d'autore #lentescura, #digitalart, #gothic, #surreal, #digitalillustration, #painting, #fantasy

Lente Scura@lentescura· Jun 7

Letters Beyond the Domes

Beyond these celestial domes,
locked and sealed in their solemn frame,
lies the earth where my heart still rests, buried—
a fragile relic wrapped in letters, yellowed and stained
by the tears of Time,
which no season could dry.

There, beneath indifferent skies,
with wondrous detachment I contemplate the stars,
those luminous nails driven
into the velvet flesh of the night;
and from their distant fires I draw invisible threads,
binding one trembling soul to another,
a vibrant web of echoes
that flows ceaselessly from me.

Come to me, all you things good and evil,
you who augment the spirit
and you who impoverish it.
I would like to know the cry of an imploding sun,
the slow extinction of memory,
that repeats and breaks
like a broken groove on the wheel of fate.

Am I truly free to speak and bleed,
to utter a joy sweet as honey
and a sadness bitter as copper on the tongue?
And now I wonder what bargain has been offered to me.
What strange gift is this they call freedom?
What promise shines in its distant light,
and what hidden wound accompanies its claim—
the memory of one's homeland,
and the exile of one's mind?

For every departure demands a sacrifice.
Leaving is not merely leaving a place behind,
but being torn from the roots of the soul,
renouncing some sacred fragment of oneself.
What price is demanded for liberation,
when redemption is one's very essence?
What remains of a heart cut off from its home,
except the echo of its ancient beat
among shadows,
ruins,
and pains preserved by memory?

Lente Scura@lentescura· May 31

Elegy for What Remains

The years do not walk. They molt.
A white coat hangs from winter's hook.
The calendar sheds another page,
And the rooms grow larger with absence.

Your voice was never a miracle—
Only a cup upon the table,
A spoon striking porcelain,
A familiar sound among others.

Now it glows beneath memory's water,
A coin dropped beyond recovery,
Untouchable in its small radiance,
Bright with the rust of longing.

How greedy the heart becomes.
It keeps receipts for vanished days,
Stores fragments in locked drawers:
A glance, a laugh, a broken phrase.

Reason comes with broom in hand,
Sweeping corners clean of ghosts.
Still the dust of your returns,
Settling over everything.

The dead are not beneath the earth.
The earth is only their disguise.
They wait in mirrors and stairwells,
In coats left hanging by the door.

They rise from unsuspecting places:
The bruised flesh of a melody,
A scent loosened by warm air,
A street remembered by the feet.

Then suddenly the years collapse
Like paper lanterns in rain,
And there you stand before me—
Not living, which would be kinder.

Instead, you burn inside recall,
A figure built from borrowed light.
Memory cannot raise the dead;
It fashions only apparitions.

For loss is not the art of forgetting.
It is carrying the impossible thing:
A house inhabited by echoes,
A heart overcrowded with ghosts.

-Lente Scura

Lente Scura@lentescura· May 31

I Sogni Che Eri Tu Modello: Felicia Marino di Lente Scura Diritto d'autore

Lente Scura@lentescura· May 28

Pulsating Flower

These frail and blushing folds of papered pink,
Like sea-foam pale beneath a dying moon,
Do tremble with a softness scarce perceived—
A tender heaving, like the breath of sleep,
That swells and sinks beneath the eye of day.

What secret alchemy inhabits thee,
That hearts should fill with such unbidden sweetness?
And what return is rendered for devotion
So silently bestowed upon thy form?

Is it beauty that binds us thus?
Or the dark satisfaction of possession?
Love, perhaps—
Or that more fevered phantom, lust?
Acceptance, cold and holy as the grave?

For thou art of those mysteries which move
Unheard, unseen—yet sing within the void,
And dance beyond the narrow reach of mortal sight.

I think I shall forever remain ignorant
Of those deep waters coursing through your breast,
Beyond the hidden chambers where no soul may pass.
There, within bright and solitary gardens,
The blossoms burn eternal in their bloom,
And pools of pallid light do gather, spill, and bleed.

-Lente Scura

Lente Scura@lentescura· May 25

Ricordi della Sicilia Modello: Elisabetha Collura di Lente Scura Diritto d'autore #lentescura, #digitalart, #gothic, #surreal, #digitalillustration, #painting, #fantasy

Lente Scura@lentescura· May 24

Lente Scura@lentescura· May 17

Titania di LenteScura Diritto d'autore

Lente Scura@lentescura· May 17

Folds (of a flower)

The many folds did softly stir
In yellow, green, and shades of cream;
A tender humming filled the air,
Like distant music in a dream.

Then came a pause—
So light, so brief—
The quiet opening of the night
To draw you gently inward
On a single, silvered breath.

I tasted then the sweetness
Of stillness slowly pouring
Through pinprick hollows
In the widening cloak,
Its delicate edges fluttering
Beneath the dark and listening sky.

-Lente Scura

Lente Scura@lentescura· May 15

Ereshkigal, La Dea Degli Inferi Modello: December Mercy di LenteScura Diritto d'autore

Lente Scura@lentescura· May 15

Seeds

Ah, but I finger the ridges, the salt-scored seams,
The bark of myself split under winter weather.
I have carried my face like a cracked bowl
Through rooms of obedient light.
Even alone, even nearest my own breathing,
I cannot name what made me.
I am patched from bright wreckage—
A museum of splinters glued with sleep and fever,
Childhood hanging in strips like old wallpaper,
Oceans grinding their teeth beneath it.
The continents drift in me still:
One shoulder full of hymns,
One mouth black with soot and bees.
Joy arrives blood-warm and leaves fossilized.
Somewhere, in the first forest of the world,
The roots that birthed me go on twisting downward,
Blind and furious for light.

-Lente Scura

Lente Scura@lentescura· May 15

Lente Scura@lentescura· May 7

Black Silk Memories

The black silk has learned the language of water.
It rises along the throat like a widowed tide,
Pale bone of moon under drowned light —
surfaces once from the well of itself,

then almost disappears again.
Sealed not by fabric but by all the unsaid years
stacked like wet hymns
inside eyes of stained glass.

I have swallowed birds.
Their small black wings beat quietly in my chest,
ash against cathedral glass.

And those eyes —
half closed, narcotic,
as if sleep were a country
I paid dearly to enter.

The darkness continues to paint itself,
brushstroke by brushstroke,
a god erasing his creation
with a thumb of velvet.

-Dark Lens

Lente Scura@lentescura· May 6

Veli di Memoria Modello: December Mercy di LenteScura Diritto d'autore

Lente Scura@lentescura· May 3

Bellezza perduta Modello: www.posespace.com di Lente Scura Diritto d'autore Nella terra oltre il mare Vive un signore di nobile ipocrisia Ruba, sfigura anime Per le fugaci ceneri del carbone della Fama La bellezza non è che uno strumento mal usato Nelle mani di un bambino, Cerca solo di ingannare

Lente Scura@lentescura· May 3

Passion Play

I’m high on anxiety—
I feed on blood-running stress.
Hunger in my breast,
the want of no rest.

The world under my fingertips;
infinity scraping my hips.
I pull the lines that feel safe
and rub them raw—make them chafe.

Train windows take the world from me:
faces blur, smear into rain.
Something in me blooms—
a jagged, beautiful rage.

I refuse the daily play—
our cage, our stage.

I give myself this vision—this mission;
a ticket I can’t return.
The unfinished asylum passion play—
still burning.

I hold myself still
and listen—

what was it
that rage.

-Lente Scura

Lente Scura@lentescura· Apr 29

$Art is My Religion Art is my religion— a fever under my skin, not hymn but incision, a bright, private blaze. It eats the quiet. It eats the sleep. I kneel to it anyway— hands full of hours, mouth full of ash and wanting, heart a thin, breakable thing I keep offering up, as if it might answer me with something permanent, something that does not vanish at dawn. The mask— glass-thin, smiling. I made it myself. I made it well. It fits like a second face, polished for their gaze, hard as a held breath. But underneath— something pulses, raw and unarranged, a creature that will not learn obedience. It claws softly. It waits. My shadow walks out in my place, well-lit, well-behaved, while I remain behind the curtain, small and electric, unheard as a thought swallowed mid-sentence. My God— not father, not comfort, but a vast, listening absence that leans close. If art is my prayer, then You are the silence after it— thick, unbroken. I chase You through images, through words that glitter and fracture, through beauty that wilts in my hands. Still—nothing resolves. Only more corridors, more echoes. Are You the hand, or the wound? Do You live in the things I love, or in the ones I cannot bear to name? So I hover— split cleanly down the center, devotion on one side, doubt on the other. I make, and I fear what answers back. Because in the work— there I am, unmasked at last, darkly doubled, stretching toward something endless that will not soothe me, will not release me from the burning. -Lente Scura$

Lente Scura@lentescura· Apr 27

Morte e Carnevali Modello: Felicia Marino di Lente Scura Diritto d'autore

Lente Scura@lentescura· Apr 27

Electra di Lente Scura Diritto d'autore