Depression
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Sundering windslift up the flaps,the loose parts of me,those small areasI can no longer see.All I’m viewingis this descent,this long slope,one way down.All I’m hearingare echoes,those from other’scrying voicestelling me,pleading to meto turn back.I want what I want,while I knowit’s not what I need.I’ve built the bridgeI’ve set on fire,never crossing it.I was half-wayto finding
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It has been all she’s chosen. With words, she find assurance. Even if a promise cannot be kept, she’ll return to the shell. She’ll return to where what had been audible was first a whisper. She’ll seek comfort in that. Wide-eyed, curious of mind, and with an appetite to want something that never moves, she’s
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A shadow has been extending from a motionless figure. How long has it been going for? How long has she been seated there, counting leaves that descend due to meeting their time? In the corporeal world, it has been a mere minute. But in her mind, her presence in this position, this stagnation, has been
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To him, all that has manifested in this aftermath might be said to be all he expected. All that destruction of a form, all because he took a different direction. Had he lied to himself at that second? All he wanted was relief. A different place to put his sanity. To whatever was left of
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All it was, to her, was a reception. She received, but she left behind an important piece to the whole. Something that she couldn’t comprehend, perhaps? All it has been, since to repeat it becomes needed, was a reception. Something to hold, someone to hear whisper to her heart in a space inside of it
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He asked himself this question a hundred times. When he asked it, again, it wasn’t with any greater wonderment than when he asked it after the fiftieth time. This question, being, “Have I done the correct thing?” struggled to be given an answer. There had been no one else, besides himself, to hear these words
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Being one, with deceit,a formal kind of forfeiture,cradling a weight, above my laplike a cherished infant,letting mildew growon the tearstained curtains –those I never dried,from desperate years. Forgetting the reasonhe grew up, designing himselfto die in an embrace,long as the universe,though confined to a void. Embracing the phaseof a moon, of a lifethat doesn’t aim
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The same songcarried, from lipsmade of marble. Who were you,other than anotherlong-casted shadow? I felt sunrisesleaking into minutes more,hanging on like forsaken blessings,hanging like curtainsthat were draped over your face, at the final stage,the final mile. Who were you,other than one moreflake of dust, set upon a shoulder,with no hand, no glimmerof light from some
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There’s mimicry,among this collected imagery.I pull in, these waters –they’ve been reminding mehow much an ocean has grown, one of which, I set sailupon a form of countless holes. Who opened fire?Who let me sink,with only two handsto lend me, this rope? For too long,stumbling on answerafter unearthed answer, and stillsomehow, those wordswere speakingthrough their
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Abandoned spark.Hoping. If everything can beall that we, carried in heart,time can stop. Let it be –another cessation at the demonstration,one more kiss, drawn inlike breath that moved a petalfrom a rose,hardened into bleak metal. Lowered eyes.Watering our earth,in our cries. Why elsecan what supports usbe shifting? Why else,with many more breaths,can our views, what
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No need. Most certainly,no need to hear me clarifywhere my suffering should,most certainly should be rectified.I weep when I cannot sleep,letting stars fall from each eveninginto cupped hands. I let another daypass with the petals that format the stems within vases,on the edge of tablesI cannot even reach. No more. Most definitely,there is no need
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Once I saw what gleamed, untilI only saw what dreamed. One darkrealization, never before rubbed,smeared, left under curtains; there, as a disguise to the daylightwith the misery.He wanted his chains broken,his mask torn off,left with the bandages, his skin,the nakedness of honesty. He dreamed under a glaze,a stir from a heavy heart.He hoped during the
Modern Romanticism 