“Tears are shed equally, while love is shared beautifully. You would look to the diseased and the anguished, and need not say a word. You would speak to the eyes, and no more, to your beloved, and they’d comprehend. A tear for suffering, is there for our loss. A tear for love, is there for our gain.”
and melancholy are these two men, with faces absorbed in dread.
as they tread the steps to the chamber above them, a conversation begins:
is absurd how Devorah has shown herself that way! She revealed herself with such
lasciviousness to her aspects! How is she upon the stage? I have seen her,
though I did not see her.” And these were Bertrand’s words, spoken with the
highest tone dedicated to frustration.
both saw her,” says Antoine, as he settles into a position of comfort so that
his words may spill, unhindered. He continues, “There is as much passion in
her, as there is seduction, albeit raving in the latter, and dreary in the
former. There is nothing that I admire more, though despise no less.”
such words necessary, my friend, Antoine? That you’d describe her in such a fashion
has begun to irritate me,” says Bertrand, casting a dark shade of a glance upon
his mellow expression.
have begun, myself, to notice that you find fault with everything. Though, I
don’t mean to criticize harshly; as I simply mean that you never see brightness,”
and the awkwardness is clearly perceived from Antoine’s words, should the
reader recall Antoine’s life.
a dark shade, comes bewilderment, and Bertrand says, “Your mention of me
speaking through negativity, is strange enough for you, since you cannot even
fathom the opposite. Your home, and your place, is less embroidered in good fortune
than from mine. How long ago did your father pass? Your mother fell into a
total despair, not very long afterwards, and I see her! Her hair clings to her
neck, and her eyes are full of tears, during each moment of the day. This would
be, of course, during any time I’d visit you. For I never see her anywhere else,
because she doesn’t seem to leave your home, does she?”
says Antoine, with a single monosyllable word, that was enough for an answer to
that disdainful question.
simplicity, of revulsions,
There was joy, in her eyes,
One, who cared, for nothing more,
‘Cept, for an echoed cry.
this, I had given her place,
Within my poor certain heart.
my meager desires,
She offered, no surprise,
By the voice, that carried,
Her, through the earth.
stole the fragrance, from blossoms,
As England breathed, its farewells.
knew, of my own trials,
Through which, I only longed.
were, the very contemplations,
That spoke, for empty years.
as I mingled stains,
With my soul, of winter,
To which, I now bequeath,
A word, of praise.
was the one, you craved,
The empty shell, you saved.
Neither one, could forge the tune,
That played below, the forest’s moon.
Nor could we, share the soil,
That will pull, our bodies down,
Let up, the one within,
My soul, which I opened.”
great art of her grace, knows not of the poor,
Now to crawl, along the sands,
To the rocks, upon the shore.
A poet appreciates
beauty, as a mother appreciates a child. Both things, a poem and a child, were
created. From such appreciation is a rising spring of love. Love holds the tolerance
and intolerance of fear and surety. Doubt and certainty cling onto each other
like the remnants of grapes held at the bottom of a wine bottle.
Antoine wanders down
this street, down Avenue de l’Opéra; he knows where he is walking; for he is
walking to a theater, named to be Théâtre Edouard VII. He must turn on the
street named Boulevard
des Capucines and find himself turning left onto a street named Place Édouard VII.
When he arrives, there is a singular observance that flares open his eyes, upon what his eyes have caught.
longest train to which has ever been witnessed in existence from Antoine, flows
like a white river out of the theater, and into the street. Alike to that of
esteemed actresses who’ve reached stardom in this time, it extends out
seemingly to his feet, and halts. Beauty has made itself a presence on this
magnificent train. The wind pushes it, and the wind pulls it. The wind lifts
it, and the wind presses it.
There is the adoration that Antoine expresses in his written countenance full of the writing of amazement. He tears his eyes close to the train, and then he begins to follow it. He ascends a few steps to the theater’s door. Then, he quits his movement to gaze ahead.
Before him, he
notices a woman’s gentle features.
They are features
that look halfway towards him and seem to be frozen on flesh that has many hues
and only one crimson blush to a solitary cheek. For that is all what is
witnessed by Antoine. It is a cheek and only half a face.
A broken stare,
marred by a few tears, wept aloud in the sweet happiness known for a woman
dressed in a smile. For her smile collides with a pain that is in her, the
presence of unfulfillment. Beauty runs a wild trail down from her dress to her
feet. For stardom is the enemy of humanity. Fame taints the actress and creates
the mask of theater.
She becomes the
harlot, turned towards the amusement for an audience’s candor. They observe;
they bow; they kiss; and they drown.
This woman soon
notices the fascination exhibited on the face of this Antoine, and she enjoys
the nuptiality from that fascination, hurled after her. She smiles a warm
smile, full now pure sweetness, and there is no more pain etched into it.
Although, it appears as if that smile was only the result of an opiate being
inhaled through the nostrils. An escape, away from her reality, and into the
arms of a comforting deception.
Mary, came to nurse,
A tree, by the lake,
I saw, with feeble eyes, and feeble heart,
A darkness, across lips, to kiss.
And she struck me, with a gaze!
Made me forget, my woes.
I danced akin, to the harlot’s motion,
When beauty, nestles only on black.
had dominated white?
It was black, that dominated white.
It was the universe, that shrouded the moon.
It was the universe, that shrouded the sun.
Bombarded my guilt, to deadness.
And I grieved, no more.
Mary. By the well, where you dwelled,
Made to suffer, made for hell.
Your absence, was the darkness, of me,
As I turned, in Christ’s direction, to plea.
A sickness, reveled in me,
Drunken on curses, that sickened thee.
Mary with pleasures, thwarted,
Mary with children, bloodied,
Mary with jewels, become rotted,
Mary with misery, remembered.
itself, upon my knees,
In holding the cross, to your grave.
I saw, with feeble stare,
The stars, upon your eyes.
They that saw, the infinity, in our love, And knew, it to be a lie. I would only fight, to see tomorrow, And now, I cradle death, in transparent arms. In a moment, that knows, how to weep, I sing a song, to grieve.
Blessings told by priests, and their hymns, of loudness, As if to awaken, the dead, from their slumber. I drew white, around white, A sheet, about a body, While a rose, stood atop, your crown, A nest, of tresses, shows the hue, of ice.
A tear falls,
from my cheek, to my chin,
I left it there, for my kin to see,
And for my kin, to salvage.