Excerpt – “My Anger, the Addiction” – Description to a Woman – 11/20/2020

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. They are all the blows to which he simply tolerates. Of love, to which never reminds him it is fine to hurt. There is something that remains in him, of living sickness that borders upon her haunting appearance.

She could remind any man of something once there, though now not. Of someone to be led to safety, reprimanded for her idealistic and punishing ways. Of someone whose eyes were blank, though now are to be filled with the same security the man has deposited into himself.

For she reminded this man of life. Of its cruelty, of all barbaric minds that nestle within its light. Of shadows that leak through the radiance. She reminded this man of life’s toil, though now to be coursed upon a different direction, from the extended sickness.

Of beauty that descends itself through curl of tress, with plainness of attire. Brown to white, with a former entrance to the hair that runs over an erected neck, with loving smoothness. Brass to the discoloration of a non-pigmented flesh, for she is as pale with death like all fallen birds. Brown hair to pale skin, to plain attire, with of the second mentioning as identical to a dress without design.

What one somber bird she was to him, with a face that startles the sun in him to set, loosening tears over the edges to silenced eyes. He could kiss, as he could drown in her storm. He could draw from her the waters, to consume with gusto that which could not be elsewhere noticed. To beauty’s beyond, of a horizon that had set her light, to shadows that are now limitless.

Curl of tress, to plainness of attire, then to a smile that warps itself as a frozen curve. To remind him of a street that rounds in the winter, born of ice, healing like warmth, though never fades.

Poem – “The Nectar of Romance” – Romance – 12/28/2019

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.