A blade in the thick of grass,
A waist meant for the grasp
From a thousand drifts through the yearning.
A sequence while we melt with the snow,
Two sentences we could not ignore
Leaving each other’s lips.
Two committments
We are unable to trace,
As we keep feasting
On roses of an esnranged garden.
We weep
In the midst of a burning world
We choose to ignore.
A slender curve,
A fallen hand,
Four burn marks from the touch,
While the thumb was pointed down.
A kiss to bring me closer
To your ever-changing patterns in the wind.
To your seasonal surrounds,
A kiss will bring me closer
Than all the flames of the wild,
Than all the temptations I have crossed
On this voyage to encompass you.
The dominant hand closer,
The better foot put forward,
The love we keep saying
Is both our embrace and our march.
You keep the music on
To the radio’s loss of your tune.
You keep answering to the dialect
For each quivering note
A handsome appearance mismatches you
With the next prettiest world
Where nothing found you.
You keep bending hurricanes closer
At the sound of wind to your window.
The more a scent can leave
Across your pillow,
The less even a dog will find
You curled up in your cat attire.
Walk with a smile to bring back.
You were meant
To walk atop your own puddles
The clouds above your head
Leave, for your reflection.
Can you say we were meant
To cross lightning with lightning?
A brief flash
Revealed the lust more tragic
Than each spark that never ended
Slower than our tracks
Being covered by the snow.
Filter the sentence,
Wear the page
Wrapped where throats collapse,
As lungs fill with the soot
Of a thousand-and-one blood droplets.
The iron,
The taste of everything
We hid, upon the tongue.
Upon the wind,
Your scent exits from the west
Where your light was burned out,
Where your eyes
Kept lowering.
It was
While we loved to gather rain
To the drunken petals,
That our darkness
Was the faces we kept avoiding.
Our kisses meant the tears,
Our eyes meant the years,
While love
Kept feeding us the rope.
We were
Always on the brink of disaster,
Holding skin as were the blue skies,
Weeping to replace missing droplets
In the ocean,
Eaten by the shore.
“No human, the doll, the tinkered instrument meant to snap either of strings to physical realness or of blinding gullibility, will perpetually be the case. All humans, the sponge, the tank flooded within that will break no matter the toughness of exterior. There is no skin the metal, nor face the mask that can guard nor conceal all things that do not hide on the surface.”
– Modern Romanticism
Weakness is not an insult. Weakness is our humanity. We are weak, when we do not want to be any longer strong. What a person protects within is always for the desire to strike out upon another, deemed weaker. The bully we can become craves to punish, even though a bully is weak, themselves. Human beings are cresting waves, as the shore is the shoulder. Tears are what push us to the brink, to the edge, that we cannot hold ourselves within. Since to hold ourselves within, is to keep humanity buried. Humans are the waves that are following a singular path. At some point, we crash, we fall, and it is the shoreline that listens.
Continue reading Philosophy – “Where Humans are not meant to Store Emotions” – 9/7/2021Driven at the mirth of your leaves,
Falling at the same space to your feet.
Creeping to the tears that left
Their stains, to discover you bleed
Beneath pale moonlight, at sceneries wept
To the fog that surrounds your form
Able for hands to lift.
While grace would grant you steps,
Each petal, each rose scattered around you
Bends a nose to the complimenting dew –
“I think, that when I look at the night, I can see something still so mesmerizing of color as the day. I can see nothing missing in detail, never deprived of either vividness nor shape. A flawless form; though, dead with the teardrops that fell, while in desperation, attempting to raise a garden from a small root.”
He wants to keep breathing. Even beyond the final hour, at the length of itself becoming midnight, he wants to keep interpreting the sighs between the varied length of branches in an actual garden. He wants to breathe, while the wind comes gusting in through the open window before him. Not a face. Not a footprint. Not a small detail that is lesser to the great vividness of something he had buried, though keeps still on the surface. Here, he sits, breathes aloud, playing a piano to his mourning.
Love repeats a melody. Plucking his heartstrings in unwanted, though truly desired, pain. He says, in the melancholic notes that are sliding his teardrops off, “She came crashing. As the waves that came to embrace me, though receded. My love was the forest. I kept wanting to water it, though it wanted to burn. It wanted to die with all its leaves, its pine needles, and all its countless ferns.”
No more than a vein
Releases, for the stains to grain.
A droplet from red to the clear
Warmth of some bitter pain.
We love until the dawn sets,
As the dusk rises,
While histories keep us close in check,
Weeping in each symptom, at all breaths.
We love, while clouds remain
To bring tracks on the desperate road
To smother, along with our sighs.
We love, while southern treks
Glisten white flags, wrapping our necks –
You awake with the forest, in tears
To repeat the wars, the countless years
Your eyes radiated with the sun,
Though drowned with sceneries shunned.
Futures discarded at trembling arms, exalted fears,
In the garden you raised
Among all warmth cast aside.
Forever to kiss the droplets
Worn as stones at my throat.
Forever to finalize the melody
Composed beneath silver crescent,
Before its eventual descent.
In solace, to be your armor,
With scorn, to be your fire –
“I think, that when I look at the night, I can see something still so mesmerizing of color as the day. I can see nothing missing in detail, never deprived of either vividness nor shape. A flawless form; though, dead with the teardrops that fell, while in desperation, attempting to raise a garden from a small root.”
Continue reading Excerpt – “Prayers at every Rooftop” – 9/2/2021
