Volume One/Chapter I – “The Devorah of Reims” – “A Limited Love” – 6/25/2019

“Her yearnings are infinite…”

Empathy is the emotion of the personal. The snow and its cold are where people are buried. Beneath its flakes, there is the death of where people sleep. We have noticed of the towns and cities that are spread across the earth, that sympathy is now the emotion used for when one deserves to be equal. In death, we are equal. In love, we are equal.

Like a flower that failed to bloom, and remained as a bud, there is a certain woman with the name, Katharina, only about as beautiful as the black orchid, grown in Asia. She prowls these streets in France, in the city of Reims, cradling a child of no name.

In love, we are equal. For God, we are equal. A scientist will dig for truth, because a scientist has no choice but to see their own feet. They refuse to be blinded by God. It is because they believe God holds no truth.

The lack of a reality makes either denial or yearning.

Truth is the flesh, separated from God, or love, so that what is noticed is only the body. As Adam and Eve, who were once nude, before betraying God, their bodies were risen from the soil, and from death, or the soil, came the life that we behold for beauty. Beauty, which is the truth or the flesh, made shocking, when exposed. Katharina is a woman of no love.

“Little to no love…”

Without love, she cares little for what occurs about her. That which surrounds her holds no interest to her wandering stare. She is in love with no purpose for love, besides the cradled infant in her arms. An infant of no name, and certainly no surname.

There are flakes that descend and fall to land upon her nose and cheeks. They lay there against the warm skin, to then melt and blend themselves in with the blackened tears that wash from Katharina’s eyes.

She is surrounded by the stares of the people of Reims.

She is surrounded by their eyes.

Glares that have witnessed her deformed appearance. An appearance that is stricken by grief. A loss to which has touched her heart and has tainted the ruby orb into black coal. Metaphorically, this would mean that there is something she flees from; and as a woman will leap from one thing to the next, she will soon return to the center.

Outside of a woman’s home, there is the world. It is because a woman’s emotions, as important as they are to her, branch throughout the world as temptation. Femininity and temptation make business thrive. Temptation creates the fuel of lust to make beauty an alterable thing. A changeable thing, because love cannot ever be used. The limitations in love become an awareness to any human, when it is simply stripped away.

The home of a woman is the heart, itself. The love; and the streets away from it, are the veins. Are we as one body? As a species, we are as one body, and the roads that led out of Eden, were endless.

God has no wife, because He has no home, besides Heaven. For a man will make his home, a woman’s heart. God would have to make his home, as everyone’s heart.

Temptation is for flesh. Love raises flesh. After love is abandoned, there is flesh exposed to the cold. Warmth no longer makes flesh warm. A shelter, a home, a shield, or an encasement, makes the flesh warm, through love. Modesty is the love. Beauty is the flesh. When love is gone, there is flesh exposed; when flesh is torn through, the human has died.

Katharina’s heart is the cold stone withdrawn from the evermore cold river and held close to her face so that she may examine its appearance. If winds run against it, it would not become colder.

Love is the emotion of modesty.

Love does not show itself, so therefore, God would not show Himself.

To the woman, and her cravings or yearnings, would a man show himself, as God is asked to show Himself? A craving, a saving, and a woman who pleas to the Lord above. In turning away, woman is betrayed by God, or a man, and beauty is revealed.

A woman’s pride, or even the downfall of any love that centered herself, comes by way of following those veins throughout a city.

She walks, Katharina, down an endless road, because she has nowhere to turn, and no time to cease her pacing.

“A vein is as any other…”

Her face holds the appearance of possession.

Possessed by the limitations in love. She has exposed her warm flesh, no longer warm to the shelter of a home, and open before the descending flakes of snow. Like a canvas drawn with a nude for reveal, shock and controversy are there for viewers.

She walks with the infant enclosed in her cradling arms.

Her only love is the world.

The roads are endless.

She follows them like the veins from her heart. When a woman moves her arm, she moves a vein. When a woman moves her leg, she moves a vein. When a woman desires freedom, she doesn’t desire love.

Love freezes, encases, and imprisons a woman in a home. For a man, love traps him to the study and examination of a woman. She may see what she sees, but he cannot see anything. To pierce his eyes, would be simple. To pierce her eyes, would take raw masculinity.

What is Katharina?

She is a woman who wanders. The road she wanders is as any other vein, as the sympathy to which is offered upon a passerby. A road and its paupers are met by the sympathetic Saint.

Katharina offers a degree of sympathy to a pauper who passes her. Though, as he passes on the endless road, the sympathy acts as the road. No intimacy is shared between them. The road is as any other vein. The sympathy for the pauper treats the pauper as any other pauper.

What would hurt through empathy?

Everything would hurt.

And the pain would oftentimes be mistaken for pleasure.

Poem – “The Symmetry of a Broken Face” – Romance

There is sorrow clinging to thy weighted bosom,
And a leech hung over thy weighted brow.
It is because of all, that we’ve grown heavenly,
And carved bread from Adam’s teeth.

You have symmetry,
For the world, to see,
And Mankind,
Crawls, out of thee.
You are full, for sleep,
As death springs, free from me,
Enough for graces, to pule and plea.
Sympathy, was never, a part of me.

I do not, see respect,
As more worth, my destiny.
To fold my long arms, about thee,
Would mean, to love thee,
And shed a single drop, into the sea,
Beauty and imagery, make a fine fold.

There is sorrow, clinging to thy, weighted bosom,
And a leech hangs, over thy weighted brow.
It is because of all, that we’ve grown heavenly,
And carved bread, from Adam’s teeth.

Eve and Lilith, are there as twins,
Their faces are symmetry, unbroken in beauty.

I have found, among you,
The curves, that entwine the earth.

With the moon’s, many faces,
Yours, is the kindest revealing.

Symmetry, and a ripened breast,
Alike an apple, hung from a tree.

Here is me, to see the sea, and drop a tear, upon thy plea.

I Bring Thee a Rose Made of Silver

I bring thee, a rose, made of silver,
For it clashes, with thy complexion,
That has formed itself, through silver tears,
And such sorrow, that quakes, thy heavenly bosom.

God knew, who to hire,
So that the artisans, would sweep their knives,
To carve, the most ebony-laced form,
Imaginable, to my keenest eyes.

Here has my sympathy, been withdrawn,
Over to the next statue, where there is she,
A futile attempt, of a portrayal,
To a woman’s depiction, in sight of Heaven.

He, the artist, lacked in skill,
So I bend my knee, to kick it down,
And make what I will, of its heap,
Of limbs, and scattered kisses.

Send to me, my love, the courier,
He has spoken, of messages, to whom, I say, there is
An Alexandria, a Bridgette, and a Charlotte,
My making hands, are soon ready.

Filled with the passion, and the simplest desires,
There is still much to make, of another,
To often am I, the artist, said to be God,
Just a man, with a keen devotion.

Poem – “Devilish and Keen” – Romance

Romance, in thy very eyes,
How devilish are those very tresses,
That lash thy keenest neck,
That raises to even keener eyes.
I have perception to see thy wickedness,
And a mark I’ve burned into thy skin.

Where would God tell us to roam,
When in this embrace?
We have failed among Saints, who had watched
Our faltering.
We failed God in His expectancy.

I wish for being a King
Upon your lakes, and your sands.
I wish for you to be a Queen,
Who harbors the next population,
To commit warfare on those different.

Romance, in our very eyes,
And two faces that are within a mirror.
Sorrow clings to your lips,
While disgrace drives into my abdomen.
I want a world to find us as a muse,
For the widest plagues to be spread.

Misery has its own color,
That color is the crimson on your cheeks,
And the futility of my perception.

I feel those who say otherwise
To this love,
And I say, “Do not, as it is not your judgement!”

No judgement is allowed for our pathetic union
But mine, as I am the one who swallowed my words.

Poem – “The Dissertation of an Enemy” – Romantic/Sadism

How salvation has arisen,
Above and beneath the consequence,
Where thee was born,
Before Satan’s altar.

You destroyed light-years of work
For the sake of a friendship.
For the sake of a pitiful message,
You broke ties with a God.

I am a life well-broken,
Deceived, and hand-made,
By the artisans of Heaven,
And your death means nothing.

You hail nothingness,
In each shivering limb that extends,
From your empty form.
A love and a woman; you are holy.

You had an aura,
A well-conceived aura of disuse,
And once held a message of broken verse,
Held it upon your breast, to say,
“Thus, the maker of me,
Has no longer eyes to see.”

I mean no harm by what I say,
Though, the notion to your beauty has voided
Itself, from the distance of my love.
Beneath God’s light, I cannot see upwards.

When Atheism dawned,
Through the petals of Heaven’s meadows,
There were thorns from Hell’s rifts,
And the portals spewed demons.
They cried, “Whenever will we arrive,
To see what has maddened us?”

A message, a god, and a woman,
Made fathomable by love and blood.
Where was God, in this moment?
When beauty felled like the cross?