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 (31)
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Standing While Falling. Top Story - January 2026.
Quotation from Friedrich Nietzsche "He who wrestles long with monsters should beware lest he himself become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you. Man is not destroyed by suffering, but by the meaning he makes of it."
By LUCCIAN LAYTHa day ago in Critique
The Risen Bet
Fragment III — The Risen Bet A Poetry Collection by layth: Fragment Archive Poetic Fragment: Welcome to the game. The game is gambling, gum in the mouth, a sniff with noise, a view without a world. Hesitate ,dance like a flamingo. They said on your way you find a beast. Are you afraid? They bet only with paper; I claim a bet a risen one, a hidden joke. I bet on myself only. Am I here?
By LUCCIAN LAYTH2 months ago in Poets
What the Rain Told Me
Emotional fragmentation I want to talk about the rain. I do not know what has happened to me, why I opened my note and began to do this, to manifest in order to write about raining. It must be a rainy day. It was cloudy when I got up earlier although I appeared happy as well. When it cries it tears up the sky. I hear each and every drop drop. All of them were stories, a fact, a betrayal, a sorrow, existing in a world in which the clouds grow blacker every time it has seen something. I hear it grumble, and cry, though screaming. Thunder , A bulletproof song a blur in your head is seen. A world is revealed in the scene, a situation of a drummer who was making me nod my head, and listen to a plan. I would hope we might live without so real and too seen a dream. Watch brothers and sisters drink water, praise God on that branch of life. A group of idiots has to be killed or cursed with internal pain. The light penetrates the heart, and in between there are roses. To the beat and the movement, a stream in the ground soon moulds the figure of the new living. it must be a leaf, a loop.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH2 months ago in Poets
Echoes Between “I” and Time
Echoes Between “I” and Time By Lucian Leith I feel heavenly when I could be “I” , if in abstraction to realm and claim; in the other hand, I raise the wine and say: where is my mind? Sing — a song by a bird who lost his chord, a tiger on view, haunting me, my eyes gazed like a veil, a drop of water mixed with one of tears, my toxic treat. Which one could survive without him gain!! as much as the creepers run on stream, not of consciousness, but instead, a loop with time, dancing with places as if they had never been . Beneath those eyes a potion of love, whispered by the lips of a witch , that’s why I always look further, beyond her lovely soul, inside her mind, as a symbol she could never reach, ever and over time. It’s my horrible way, my faithful road, still maximizing the infinite by a piece of silver . as they said, Judas once betrayed Jesus for silver, and for me, a silver is the cause of pain. And if you ask me : which way I choose my suffer and pain? A needle or a pen?
By LUCCIAN LAYTH2 months ago in Poets
Lost Between Mirrors and Time
Here Luccian Layth is reflecting on what the self may be re-refracted in its mirror, between trial and betrayal, between inner death and inner light, the existential question takes place towards eternity, nothingness, and the Creator. It is a poetic excursion, between suspicion and definite affirmation, between obscurity and radiance, in which the way itself is the creature and the creature is the way.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH2 months ago in Writers
"The Resident of Pain"
I am not a blank page, but the remains of a book which was not written and burned. To me no explanation wants... I have no presumptions about necessitating explanation. I am in this sound which has not softened. and the features that have not been made to smile. I do not tidy up my mess, but leave it a monument of what I have experienced. Any of my silences is a tale, and everything in my eyes turns the temporal and superficial. I am not a passer-by of pain... but a resident of it, I know it as I know my name... And I purchase it as picking up an ugly fate. I do not seek salvation, or raise my head towards the sky. I am the son of the heavy earth, and sister of primeval solitude. I already know something about darkness, and I shake my hands with it every single night and never tremble... and I know how to stare at it without asking to be lit... I am no beast that could be argued... but perceived... and feared.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH2 months ago in Poets
The Abyss of Mirrors
Volcanic ash rises from the early hours of the night, and mysterious claws dig their edges into the middle of the wound. When the cities slept under blankets of light, I was haunted by delusions passing through closed windows. The wind carved away what remained of my body, crumbling my attempts at peace, and rearranging my features whenever I tried to hold myself together. There was no beginning on the horizon, nor end to the earth. I stood in no place, spun with golden threads, as if I were an echo of eternity that had not yet passed. Then an earthquake— we are now in the abyss, an abyss with no bottom and no top, no behind and no ahead. The mirrors around me shatter at their seams, reflecting me as a sparkle that crumbles between symbols. I tried to pick up a straw needle, a strand of words, a piece of bread that nourishes the soul of truth. But time was slipping away, like dreams slipping from the memory of a sleeping child. My body told me: ‘I am emaciated.’ So I laughed sarcastically, not mockingly, but in a farce that laughed at itself. I am by nature a humorous person, difficult to convince, let alone laugh. My being shook, as if my soul had never existed. But my heart remained silent, as if it no longer knew my language, or as if I had forgotten the language of hearts. Suddenly, a creature appeared before me. It was neither an angel nor a demon. It had eyes like a tiger's, sharp, beautiful, shining like swords. Its stature rose from the darkness like a mountain, but its voice was a whisper like a cool breeze. It said to me: "You are not the one looking for me, I am the one looking for you." My whole being trembled, and I felt as if I were standing before my former self, or perhaps before my future self, from a time yet to come. I sat listening to the silence, and I saw that the world is nothing but a recurring dream; we wake up to return to it, and we sleep to continue what we have missed of its chapters. Are we complete human beings? No. Are we incomplete demons? No. Perhaps we are the descendants of a lost creature, who fell from the edge of time, and forgot its instincts along the way. We live on what remains of our memory, we feed on nostalgia, and we die every day without knowing that we are dying. My soul is empty, like a well that has been dry for centuries. Everything inside me has become an echo, and every echo evaporates into the void. Perhaps I was a liar. Perhaps I was a charlatan. But I have not yet been burned, and there is still something breathing in my chest, something screaming that I have not completely disappeared. And so, between silence and words, between dreams and wakefulness, between certainty that cannot be proven and doubt that cannot be dispelled, I stood without bottom or top, without beginning or end. Perhaps I am the dreamer, and perhaps I am the dream itself. But I know one thing: that I possessed for a single moment a hidden essence, a moment that no one else saw...
By LUCCIAN LAYTH2 months ago in Poets
