Fall upon me, now, And un-shield your eyes, That sparkle from the dew of a newest morning, A cry for aid, when you came astray, Feeling pain as you did upon the birth Of our love.
Your mind is a curse for your heart, Your heart is a feast for my mind. Your flesh is the place where I part The breasts, to see where I may carve, The distinction between love’s breath in time, For all that I could rewind.
I am in love with a mirror, Two delicate eyes that reflect The most diseased memories. God would raise me to his height, so that I could know, All the pain of the world, that surely grows. Denial is a place for the most comforted, And the most suffering.
I am in love with a mirror That reflects a distant past. It glares upon me, in heated romance, It pours upon me, pain after growing pain. Do not die for me, as I take this final retreat, A step backwards in the right direction, To a place I know well, A place I do recognize, As an area kept in Hell.
Love is a famous thing, My bird, my devil. You have sprouted wings for myself to see, Hoping for this face of mine to utter some sound, That will ignite the world around. Our garden of decay, Is where we share these notes of love, Alike our merry Heaven with a house of stone, Falling to our feet, from above.
I will hope to meet you, in coming time, Kiss you, beneath tree and star, combined, Blessed beauty, you have been made mine, Structured in a well of empathy, Screams and sighs, we allow for each other, For kisses and holiest rhymes, To bleed upon another.
Destitute, we once were, As children of a demonic world. And we are now the crudest things, Beneath wreaths of love, and greatest imaginings. Once, we were brethren of faraway hopes, And we kissed beyond a sea, We suffered torments without vows, And now, We are lovers in swollen hearts.
“Where loss encourages the will for survival, a human will each believe that there is more to do, more to gain, and more for the stride. Such is how life functions, in contrast to the forced contentment from death. Or, in love? How does love also evoke the stillness of gratitude?”
She is the waltzer to this afternoon, embedded in a fervency alike the notes played upon the piano; and even he, a man with his fingers so engraved in the keys, as he seems to touch them a lot like the skin of a certain woman. And that woman, is the mover and the waltzer. She is the memorable beauty to strike bleakness out of the depressed gentleman, and cause him to rumble from the new light founded in his morose heart.
What is the maker of the memory? It must be the woman, the “she” spoken as either the “she” or the “her” around the atmosphere of the parlor, about nighttime, when guests are caked in candlelight.
The woman of any newest memory is from that moment, locked in the mind, the branching and stretched blooded veins, and nothing is represented as straight. It is said, or has been said, that a woman enhances herself in Lesbia, before straightness is met through a man. And what else better describes beauty than from Lesbia, the female-to-female, when the heart is cradled by a heart; and that is to speak on the term “possibility” when in the realm of that exact organ.
A heart, the realm of the unlimited, is where this certain woman, whose name is Beatrice, forms a curve with an arm.
So alike the curves from hips, the curves from Beatrice’s mouth, and the whispers spoken in the idleness of this afternoon, given from her cherished emotion. She walks to where the pianist has accompanied himself in his notes, to next accompany himself in her fragrance.
It entices him to an extent, so that in length, he turns his head towards her features, that are, at this moment, fluid and fervent in the many folds from eyelids and pouting lips. Her lashes are brought down to the lower lid, and remain there for but a moment; as then, her cheeks spread across them the crimson current, bleeding an emotion similar to stark resonation, the feeling of association with belonging; as then, her lips are curled to the area beneath her nose, with nostrils that find her scent to be, as well, pleasing.
“The difference between a lie and the truth is this. It has been said. A lie is a lie, while the truth is the truth. A lie will be embraced easily, and come to someone as comfort. It will then create a web of complexity. The truth will be difficult to embrace, and come to one as a stone. It will then create absolute purity upon the time it is accepted.”
Where tears weep out to the hovering space, I’ll say that it is you who cries. Behind a closed curtain where farewells die, There is you who cries.
There is the merciless destruction of a form, A love had once protected it, And protected a face, From scarring.
Death is your only reward, For your selfish abandonment. What is my reward? Where is my punishment? I am the fallen curtain, And the somber attitude.
The endless revealing of your bleeding tears, The times we’ve kept to the unending dark, Has played our emotions like distant notes, Called from a rock, Called from a wailing woman, Whose lover has gone away.
There is shadow that creeps over me, By the futility of a presence. I am angered by my desire, To still have you, by the moment I’m meant to hang.
Love has called me back, To my selfish hopes, Your selfishness is merely a stone, To my boulder.
Your shielding hands do not wash tears, But merely keep your face hidden from the crudeness, Of my blatancy. Of balance and form, of folded wings that burn.
Of grace and sickening aromas, Of rouge and shadow and roses, Of beauty and the chain to the whip. There is all the desire to behold.
There is a reveal of madness in my swimming eyes, There is a curtain of forgiveness upon my arm, There are beauties who roam, And kisses that touch.
I am nothing without a fever, Without a love. I am nothing, And simply everything.