Before me, you sit with a sorry stare at a rim To a glass made of the fibers of sand, Love is a breath in the air for our breath, As sweet as the redness in your hair And as bitter as the very sight of death, As the very sight of what sticks out in your mind.
A face with eyes engraved, And hair that blossoms like thorns to roses. Of those eyes that are either emerald or sapphire, Alike the Earth or the sky, Though, I am unable to tell. Beauty fell upon me like those tides above, And I was on the cross, Dying for my own sins. Your marble face and hair of fire, Gleaming with random tresses, Upon your breast, Folding upon your shoulders.
Love has made us famous, While our hearts make furious rhythms, In the dead of this night. We sit here, to stare at the curves of a glass, Love is revealed at our left hand, As hope is in our right.
We’ll deny ourselves as long as we can, Or death will cast its own ring from shadows, To place itself upon your fine, marble hand.
Face me, beautiful one, You are as lovely as the awoken morn, With hair as red as the liquid that stains your heart, Upon each repeated sip, As red as the rays cast away from the sun, To the meadows of Heaven.
Beckon to me, slowly, And captivate me, with your childish breath, Listen to my tale in trembling sorrow, Slow melodies come as transparent. You have beauty glistening as the morning calls, Each deepening farewell, To the saddest song around, To the most miserable of notes, Each played upon an eroded harp.
There is Heaven in your eyes, And bliss in your soul. There is strangeness that captivates every yearning, As the strings from this harp seems to strangle My potent breath That brings bitterness to your mind.
Come kiss the night into day, And make a song from your sigh. There is twilight around, And beauty beneath The most fragrant of soil, To cling upon your fingertips.
With arms like carved porcelain, And lips like fine ruby, I am deep in this eternity, To see you raised from stillness, And beckon to me, slowly, With a face so full of rays.
“The most comforting sight is the recognition of life, and to see a woman and her beauty will remind one instantly of a mother. The flesh, the soft flesh, the soft breast, that as an infant, one had laid their head against, and wrapped lips around the nipple for the sustenance that also provided comfort. Of beauty and gentleness, there is in it, only sheer recognition to what it represents, the soft glance and the bold eyes, not the hardness dealt from society. For when we cast our eyes upon it, as has been said, we retreat back into innocence. We retreat back into the innocence of the infant, back when all we expected was the softness of the breast, and not the hard beating of the open place called life and independence. There is a dependency in this, to see that which the hardened human relies on for no more than a moment in this solace, and a remembrance to a time when warmth was all one had ever known.”
“A woman’s world is in where her eyes have glimpsed the men who travel towards love, or the men who travel towards death. That is, a woman’s world is where her eyes see the Men of Peace, or the Men of War. Remaining in the center, makes her only able to see the lifestyle of Heaven, or the lifestyle of Hell, and she adopts only one, for she cannot adopt both. She is the flesh being sculpted, by a man’s actions. This is to say that a woman will travel upon one road, only to become lost, should the loyalty to her be abandoned. She’ll become lost, thus requiring further guidance. In what possible world is a woman, as land, able to surge herself on the course, through loneliness? Her vision is lost, without her creations. Without her creations, that is, without children or men, her eyes remain closed to the fixation upon a simple feeling. And that feeling is doubt.”
“Curiosity is the branching stream of mortality, turning curiosity into what is placed upon existence, or reality. A curiosity over life, would make the theme of ‘existence’ hold the definition of ‘the existing moment’, before ‘existence’ becomes ‘non-existence’, perhaps during the next moment. For the same reason that an Atheist will repeat the words, ‘God is dead,’ is for the same reason that we’ll accept the death of a human. In life, we accept the death of existence. And, we deny continually the size and shape of anything never born, or never existed. Why is it, then, that in today’s time, we have retained a curiosity over the afterlife? Both religious folks and those of the sciences have studied the afterlife. Curiosity is born upon life, and life is the mark of existence. And should immortality be the custom for each human, we’d soon have a curiosity over death. Over creating life, we’d create death. Over creating beauty, we’d create ugliness. Even today, when we’ll name obesity as beautiful, we are leaning in that hideous direction. We no longer have a taste for beauty, nor a taste for life. We deny the spoken words of criticism, and name it negativity, despite criticism existing to better life. What is our curiosity? To see how the beauties of life flourish, or to see how the Hellish creatures of death flourish?”
“Without the fear of death, there is no fear, itself. That is, to fear, means to desire an end. An end to pain, would place fear and pain in a vicious cycle, to which fear makes us desire all amount of positive emotions, to cleanse the pain. Those emotions would resonate upon love. Love cleanses fear, and is in polar opposite to death. Therefore, without a fear of death, there would be no emotions. Once again, this is due to how fear generates the need for every other emotion, because fear remains as the most primitive and ancient emotion, to exist. After fear, and after when age matures a child enough so that they no longer fear the environment; that is, after adaption and strength takes hold of youth, there are the other emotions, connecting with human connection. To desire immortality, makes a human desire not life, but numbness. For that is due to when fear will create pain, fear and pain also reminds a human that they are alive, and not dead.”
“Why are there a number of scientists so bent on extending the human life beyond a mere century? To become immortal would embed the sheerness of the unfulfilled life into the individual. Because, to live forever, would never mean living one’s life to the fullest. The desire to live, stems from the fear of death. Therefore, the desire to live, would turn into the desire to die, should that fear of death be erased. Fear is exactly what drives life to fulfillment and accomplishment. It is a motivator, this fear, and no amount of science can ever comprehend this.”
“There are those who’d firmly believe in the notion that life begins simple, before turning complex. From an infant, sparks adolescence, and from adolescence, sparks adulthood. Though, does life remain complex? And, if so, where does life return to simplicity? Surely, it cannot be when we die. Of the multitude of experiences, each of them as real as the next, death cannot merely be the one to which a human yearns for, with so much enthusiasm. Have we forgotten the notion of hope, of optimism? We are not so much suicidal, that we state that death is the only simple truth. That, in all of life’s woes, we are hurrying ourselves towards that inevitable end, without also looking forward to a beginning. We pass the torch, so to speak, soon as we draw our final breath. Though, in our lives, there are indeed moments shared between other lives, where love blossoms a new flower that we may see in fullest radiance. Beneath our eyes, the rays from a sun, our face, making it grow with tears that come as the rain, this is love. And, in these small experiences, each cherished with the next, we do not yearn for the flower to die, with how much protection we cast onto it. Such moments are the simplicity, and each of them capture death as it would lay in stillness.”
Hope is a well that springs
eternally the warmth of possibility.
Though, for each individual
possibility, there should be a guide so that further loss is not eventual, and
never inevitable. A leader, that is, should reassure the sorrowful that there
is greater light than such a hopeless one can ever consume, to fill whatever
void has been created.
Beauty has a message:
Beauty asks for one of two things,
“I must be protected,” or “I must be destroyed,” while the former is
fulfillment, while the latter is mere temptation. A desecration of life, does a
woman yearn to fulfill herself in this; and could she step upon a flower to
feel fulfilled, or perhaps destroy the entire universe? Temptation is an
infinite thing, and upon its path, the only thing that is represented is
failure, the death of many things. As for each life, the only failure to
conquer it, is the one that kills it.
We speak of all this, soon when
Joseph enters his beloved’s abode, which to him, was his own previous abode.
And he finds his woman strangled by
He finds what she remains as, the
grace of tears, the notion granted from loss, and her hair! Her hair, such a
latter detail from the previous fewest words, represent now the multitude of
wires that engross the finality of humanity. To become the corpse, would be to
become the machine. The puppet, to which we find it mattering to say should be
A lifeless thing, her named was
Barbara, the love of Joseph, too stricken by his abandonment to edge herself
further through life. Wires for hair, alike the machines that are beginning to
conquer the industry of our setting in London.
All words now a part of a bruised puzzle becoming wholesome flesh, as Joseph kneels to the defeat of himself. He does not speak, though rather chooses to rub his face in the floor, below him.
His tears run as the dew that folds itself over leaves in the morning. Like the leaves that bend when the dew droplets make their travel to the pointed end, Joseph, as well, bends his form close to the floor, by the same maneuver. Angelic, it seems, that his torment has become, and more is guilt the persistence to reveal that torment; for that is because he is closer, himself, to dying, and relating himself to the hanged corpse, before him.
He feels a sense of shaping, as though his soul is calling him into the body, before him. The body that has a wind against its skin, so that it has begun to swing. It would not bleed, not even in description of that its blood has ceased to flow, though in that such a woman named Barbara would not show remorse.
She had done this deliberate act for proof, and only this, perhaps in hopes of a coming stranger, or even Joseph, to find her.
Every suicide is an act of proof.
Those who say to each of them determined to end all, the words that go by the ever-more deliberation of doubt, are received with words that say, “If only I had said otherwise.”
Would further love turn this tragedy mended? A failure that Joseph has engrossed himself upon, has allowed to show wound upon wound in himself; and now, he only shows kindness to the floor, because he kisses it. He wets it with his tears that blossom freely from his eyes. They would be like blood, were ever Joseph to hold pain as physical.
A wound of the heart, is always cured by love. It is a fixation, a focus, this emotion, this feeling, that is determined to heal. And yet, love may only heal the heart.
“As truth translates to the recognition of it, it would be received with calmness. And of everything relating to ugliness, such would relate to the feeling of shock, perhaps at the time when a mother has discovered her child, being dead.
All art that presents shock to a viewer, does not present beauty. That is because beauty relates to life, and life, when recognized to be loved, has been protected, and did not change.
Everything related to change, relates to hatred. Everything related to life, relates to truth, relates to originality, relates to the origin, relates to a woman, relates to flesh. Everything related to stillness, relates to the capturing of life. We would not be shocked at recognition, but recognize our own ability to recognize life; though, we would be shocked at death, because death comes at an instant, in representation of how death enveloped life.
It is because, for each heart beat, there will be the instant to which the heart stops. We are shocked at death, because death relates to the instant, whereas love relates to the infinity.
The opposite from death is love, not life.
Life should, therefore, be shrouded in the blackness of birth, of love, not the blackness of death.”