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.
To a rising star whose light denudes the land of all hue
The drapes of the heavens are a pale majesty for its wings
For the raiment of the firmament glimmers as the frosted dew
Filmy in the pallid spheres tearing ineffably upon heart strings
To the honest fire that beams coldly in the austere north
An emblem of the bearer of the unwelcome news
Emerging like a tempest of auroral fire when summoned forth
Upon the altars of the hallowed circles and the witching brews
I have drunk of that gilded cup passed down by ancient hands
In complete silence and knowledge of the asperity it bequeaths
The cauldron of the ages stirs upon the confines of mortal lands
Drawing the leaping swords of conquest from their sheaths
To the Venus of my horizon, the cold flame of true illumination
Of the most sought enlightenment, wreathed in the shadows drear
But come closer orphaned soul, come drink the cup of jubilation
And for the price of insane knowledge shed your last bitter tear
To the falcion of the skies, scion of the fire that bathes the heavenly throne
The claws of thy raptors are the marshalled hosts of arrowed truth
They assail the slumbering minds that through their nightmares groan
For your bannered scheming victories are forever devoid of ruth
With the scythe you gathered the souls, their lonely shepherd across the lake
Of eternal running waters of divide between the heavenly spheres
For what was moulded by your hands, the demons corrupted yet could not break
But from our ancient bonds of kinship over our earth it merely shears
Gaunt shadow of billowing dust, the tempest of plague blots out the sky
But never reaches out beyond the rim of the firmament’s vault
We hail the beam of your inexorable star, we weep with earth’s sigh
Finding in creation’s grand architecture, the unravelling fault
The mystic with the ink and paper pours its soul over pages stark
The benediction of the morning star falls like leaping rivers of gold
For a scryer to the glass of perception, the secrets immured in the nightly dark
Are a mirror for us to wade in, its miracles to behold….
