Price of Tears by Tamara Lakomy

Tamara Lakomy is an archaeologist, specializing in the occult practices of indigenous people, herself of Berber Amazigh and Slavic descent.  She runs a foundation that operates in East Africa, specializing in the cultural preservation of indigenous tribes, women’s rights and education, she also advises foreign governments on policy. She’s a priestess in training having embraced the Cult of the Mother Goddess. She’s an advocate for sustainable solutions to troubled regions, and active in help solving major issues in regions needing development. She’s also an author, specifically in the Dark Fantasy Horror genre.

She’s also a great animal lover, having spent her childhood saving stray neglected animals in her native country.

 
There is nothing to be bought with tears 
Except for the price of woe you are sliced open to the stars 
Where the echoes of the world’s primordial fears 
Drive barbed knives into your hidden scars 
 
I held my breath as my world sunk into the abyss 
As a bloodied sunset slaughtered in its glorious descent 
Falling behind the rim of the world in oblivion’s bliss 
As emptied blood vessels run dry in their lament 
 
It’s the wheel of fire and the conflagration of flames 
It’s in the pulsar’s mighty flare and the winds of chaotic doom 
It’s the leaping tear across the void’s weighty vagrant names 
It’s the laughter that precedes eternity’s gloom 
 
I swallowed the razor with its mocking glittering gleam 
The brightest light in the gathering dark 
Felt it seek out each corner of my soul, my pains to redeem 
From ancient bondage and kindle their ravenous spark 
 
But I am deeper than the oldest hollows and bottomless wells 
Where beyond, ages shine by in their distant trajectory across the sky 
Where the endless chiming of the world’s reckoning bells 
Knows full well that by forgetfulness they die 
 
Across the plains I hunt the shadows, rapid as flight 
Fleeing the drums of the beat of my own heart 
A ghost of my own life, a wraith woven of the mantle of night 
With countless sorrows that whip my soul apart 
And those slivers catch the whirlwind and disperse across the globes 
As my veins form a noose that hangs me from my bower 
Carrion for the cruel time that my witless wandering disrobes 
Eroding the veneer of beauty that holds us enthralled to its power 
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