Here is the cruelest fate,
That life has placed upon my plate.
I have furnished the table with silverware,
Of those to my type.
And I will dine on what you have given me
In the Hell we are both living,
And for the Heaven we are both missing,
Upon the Earth where we are both grieving.
The nectar of romance,
A sweet curse, a bitter blessing.
A little droplet of a memory once believed to be a sibling.
And yet, it is a scarecrow
That possesses no life,
Because, all we’ve drunk is the strife
That lifts away stones,
To see the past.
To see the past that howls the world to storm
Itself, in twisting winds
And cursing tides.
I am a little hypocrite,
Who deserves not that droplet,
And yet, I have received it.
For I will suffer as you have suffered,
Live as you lived,
To understand you.
Denial is my misfortune, while solace is your acceptance,
My beauty, with radiant face
And dirtied locks.
Tresses made of wire,
And form made of marble,
The air that you exhale closes a chapter
Where love was a cruel endeavor.
Who weeps, and still creates song
After bloody song
In her bath of red-colored water,
As her garbs lie heaped upon one another,
On the floor, outside of reach.
I saw what twisted my vision,
A hue in a bath of water
And it was the color of the sun, yet without the warmth,
For a knife has drawn evenly
Over the wrist of a lovely wife,
One cut, and it was made wider than ever a smile she’d show.
Beauty of any dream,
Nighttime has seemed to bequeath
Itself, like light in the empty hearth,
For darkness has been your comfort
In the Hell I’ve called love,
In the confinement we’ve called home.
Like a prison,
Like a womb,
Like a nest with no birds from your side,
Pulled as many ribs,
So you can call them equal
To your pain.
And a face that strikes out an image
Of complete and utter peace.
All distortion follows
The moon with its velvet hues,
Its call to men of blood-thirst,
For it has a face as wicked as the heart above it,
My own, that does writhe
But, what does it say?
Shall we have a listen?
Syllables in repetition,
Contrasts in transition,
And the words spoken, aloud, are,
“What is this wilderness, about yourselves?
Have you forgotten,
To call back,
And, only me?”
The blood upon our hands,
The haze before our eyes,
The land beneath our feet,
And the moon is merely another orb,
Alike our hearts,
There, for the solace,
For the sleep,
So much as we’ve neglected it.
Within the moon, we do fall,
Around our hearts, we do move,
To see the negligence, drifting about
Our pallid faces,
And our clawed fingertips.
As life would be, thrown in my direction
With all the smallest jingles from bells against it,
And the scenario builds itself
Upon the rottenness of my withering shoulders,
For my life is a crusade,
A great race
Across this treasured desert,
Upon this harlot’s cross,
Where she’d die for the nighttime,
Where she’d die for the bedtime,
Where she’ll kiss, through a cloud above my brow.
I am grieving
A newest moment,
Where death has crawled itself, to my feet,
To my mind, to my eyes,
As tears are all there’s left to eat.
Little girl, with your blinding light,
You were a great pebble to lift,
Across oceans, where tears are engraved
Like marble in the deepest glades,
Like sapphire in the whitest skulls.
What is worth all the tears
That I have to consume?
What is worth all the fears
That I have to embrace?
A puny face with treasured gaze,
Calls to me, for the moment,
To see what truly stings
In a heart made of sulfur and made tragedy.
You were where love was truest
In both Heaven and Hell, a fire made fullest.
She has made me want
She has made me want
To weep cries of softness
And greater bitterness,
Into these hands that tremble,
For I am sick to my utter core.
In my failure,
I am still in my mind.
I have faulted everything
In all my failure.
To feel guilt is noble,
Is it not?
My health, I care not for it.
My mind, I care not for it.
Only the memory of a dear, do I hold in my palm,
As it rots so frequently
With the passage of a few drops of time.
Little noble guilt that I feel,
And I wonder
Why my words feel so empty.
I see distortion in the letters,
As pain rides my back,
And I know
It is still her.