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
Transcendent Zero Press 