Book
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“How can hope, be this sick?” says he, to the fog of himself, before the mirror’s idleness. For a reflection’s sake, love is his only teardrop to come forward, marking his humanity into the glass. It is at his feet. It is a puddle, mirroring him. A photograph. Of a woman, to the world. To
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We cannot look at love as anything other than a mode of stillness. Captivation. Here, a woman named Lisa breathes, brought down upon a loveseat from her husband, Jonathan, and his hands. He has kissed her forehead, remaining damp to his lips from exertion. A wandering smile, darts from East to West across his mouth,
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A burial. You are my tomb. My place, in the world, is forsaken. Upon you, I will rot, decay and slumber. In your arms, I am lost. I do not heal, for I am lost. I have always burned a trail for my feet to carry me. I have executed innocents, for the sake of
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Of her, I see something starless. Still, the shadows come to me, as they ache their remorse. For I have guilt that would set an ocean atop a scale, and weigh it to Heaven. Nothing could challenge the departure of myself to where I see, with eyes that are frail, the face of her at
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Beauty is born upon her, with marks to her fields of skin. Imperfections that amount to the truths of this once-wounded woman. Cured by absence, though remains scarred in this man’s heart. Remains treasured more in his mind, than that orb of red. Of memories within bleakest stains, that never fade. They are the shadows.
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“No human could immediately correct themselves, without needing convenience. Whereas, no human could form wisdom, without an extended time in suffering.” – Modern Romanticism To think science would be needed, if there was a way for all humans to “grow up”, is the definition of ignorance. All humans, when errored or imperfect, displaying such in
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How upon a river, when that stream comes as tears, you’d ever be swept aside? My hands are disfigured, so unlike yours that bare themselves to the sunlit moon. Mine do tremble, beneath my face that has been smeared. Smeared by ash, while your hands are not with scars, though with the purity I’ve kept.
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This tale depicts a mentally ill convict, who represents the anti-hero, who cannot help but to feel immediate regret for the disgrace he has placed upon his wife and daughter. For the certain mistake and crime he made, he has been placed in prison for 10 years. At the beginning of “No Love Barred”, the
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He speaks directly to her ear, “You are still so small, my child.” She withdraws to peer upwards to his gaze, with quivering lips and weary stare, to then commit a moment in a burning. She kisses him. Upon the lips, smooth with each waxen mouth that fires up a fever to the downing daytime.
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Walking upon the Calle Mayor, passing the red of nearby buildings, a thumping heart swells so wide. He wants, as he could think on it, to see over his shoulder to a past, igniting his eyes with all he once had. For he says, “I love. Though, do not love enough to be stable, in
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“To not Sink a Friend” is a tale of a man’s battle with his mind in his sudden need to revel in anger, raised against his negligence to befriend a beloved who he once placed all devotion. A tale of misunderstood manipulation from said once-beloved, in the wrong belief that she is at fault. A
Modern Romanticism 