Excerpt – “Faded Flowers” – Wartime Romance – 3/30/2021

“Running. A trek that will take miles to him, though is a mere rounding of a corner to sight of horror. “Will she? Will she be there? Here? Somewhere?” are the words he releases, torn off as shreds of paper at the corners of his mouth. Written in some place of his heart as the torment yearning induces, he has hurled the multiple questions forth without much for forethought. A rounding of a corner to spot something enough of a horror that it could or would gravitate his ongoing legs to their knees upon the soil.”

– Peter A.W. Wyatt (Faded Flowers)

Excerpt – “Sweet Medicine – On how Leadership Utilizes the Focus of Speech to Deceive” – Philosophy – 1/13/2021

Speech is the tactic for which a leader uses, that reveals nothing for the underlying proof. As it should be mentioned, the term “intention” cannot be signified in speech. Among any person, each secret that is within one of us, will never be revealed without implemented trust for a listener. Such means, that were a leader to a nation never to reveal intention, only ever signifies that there is no trust from leadership to the people. Would it be the correct case to believe that a nation’s people should trust their leadership, or that the leadership should trust the people? If such is ever the latter, then it is that the leader, without trust for the people, holds fear of the population to be threatening. Though, the only ever time when the former is the case, is when leadership is honest and forward by the fact that nothing is held within, for the sake of the people never being speculative.

Of a nation where freedom is seen to the population, there will always be thinkers of this characteristic. Free thinkers, to be those of speculation, will never be trusted by leadership. Such would mean that the only method to subdue this distrust would be to abandon the nation’s people of their ability to freely think for themselves. It can only be, that in a nation where its people are trusting of its own leadership, there will come of it either the pure darkness of poverty or the bliss that name some places “Heaven on Earth”. Again, to make either the case of the result, trust must be the implement for leadership so that blindess will be to that result. As people are blinded both in darkness and by intense light, there will be to both the shutting down of people’s free voice.

Freedom, by way of a people’s speculation, has no room to trust leadership. Speech is the way for either existing leadership or for new leadership to make itself the sole presence of mind.

Excerpt – Prose – “My Anger, the Addiction” – Romance – “A Description of Anguish” – 11/25/2020

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 a certain place, a certain doorway. Love lives in it, as hearts beat soundly along the walls, within. Love is the certainty that challenges my clarity. For I am blinded by my sadness, as I am left to wipe tears with something so solid.

So solid, yet so weightless. It is fire that burns in my chest, leaving ashes to spread. Winds pick up what is left to be freely moved. As winds do carry what has been scorned, of what has been lashed by this hot sun in me, it was soon her who fled. Her face seared in anguish, while what a heart she possessed had been stung by hornets with venom.

I did love, yet I loved with a banquet of tears to consume, both of her and my own.

Though, I walk on, without her near. I walk, with a gait that slows to then speeds, upon a path where I’ve come to say is “familiar”. A familiar path? Oh, if all my world could cease where grows pain in my heart, I’d send her back. Just a flaming dove, with peace to behold, and still can set the sun apart from Earth.

Excerpt – “To not Sink a Friend” – Volume Three/Chapter One – “Analogy Between Men & Women” – 8/19/2020

Lisa had walked. Now, she lays. Upon a back with her eyes to the sunlight. It is her ceiling. Such a golden wash of hues extends to her resplendent, ivory face. What woman, any like her, can be she who eclipses all the stars to make the pitch darkness?

Then, to create a new sort of painting for life to see.

She has spawned that life, making new curious eyes.

From the most direct of truths, it is by no means a man can understand a woman, entirely. What does Joel comprehend, of Lisa?

A comprehension is to understand creation. Guilt builds, which is why destruction is never created. One cannot make art into decay, and title it something like a creation. One cannot say that death is created, for nothing can be preserved of it, unless it still holds worth for studious value. Therefore, to understand a woman means to comprehend what has been created.

If all men fault themselves on understanding a woman, then it is because the world has faulted itself on creating her. Shaping her, molding her, for her curiosity stems to areas of where she seeks light. She eclipses stars, only to bury past hurts.

A man is only half-way to understanding truth, and half-way challenged to not be distracted by anything else. A man can see a heart of a woman who is loved by him, though holds nothing if all he soaks himself in is the sweat from flesh. Lust, of continual dissatisfaction, makes of a woman her disorder. The using of her, of her body, causes her. A causation to a creation, is the difference between disorder and order.

What of Joel? What has he caused?

Love would not cause. An imperfection, so much like the mistakes a man makes, falls upon a woman’s form, making her perhaps obsolete to his eyes. Love is perfect. A man makes imperfection through causation, though creates perfection through creation.

How many women are curious to see what is beyond? How is Lisa to fit in this? Her eyes see Joel’s desires, emanating from his gaze. Her eyes see what he wants, though never what he needs.

Has he found his way to her heart?

A woman’s heart is not the clay. A woman’s heart is the ruby. Break her heart, and the surrounding flesh outside the skeleton becomes haggard. It becomes dried, void of blood, void of youth, as she is unable to call herself “beautiful”, any longer.

To what a woman says, being the words, “I care not for relationships, nor what another person thinks of me,” this translates to, “I no longer wish to be in someone else’s control.”

No woman, it seems, can pretend to take control. All women, it seems, want control enough to settle for the imperfect state of a something. As in, to adopt the power in what a man has caused. She looks to his errors, scorns them, only because he had not been better. She looks to the absence of the creator, rather than to his presence, and says it is right. In this, she goes to adopt his path.

All men are there to yield, to keep back, upon when they mean to create. This defines respect, for her. Yet, when they act, they cause. What proof, in any love, in the relationship between a man and a woman, is needed in further continuance when he has already done it? A first, and never to a second, is all the action required of a man to say he is there.

Why would a man need to open the door to her, or for her, a second time? A man is challenged, in this respect, to not cause, to allow space, to not be distracted, and to remain focused on a singular.

Excerpt – “To not Sink a Friend” – Chapter VIII – Romance Novel – 7/1/2020

“What do you comprehend?” protests Joel, going to say, “You believe you realize what thrives in my heart? I am madly in love with her!”

“Do not be so angered. As a friend, I merely wish to speak with sole honesty. You are in torment with her, and even without her physical presence,” says Aaron.

Aaron’s voice is calm, resolute, and without restriction. It is that Joel’s voice quivers in this declining night, stayed in apparent grief for her missing presence. It is evident on his features, as it merely proves Aaron’s words.

He holds her scent upon his clothing. He is intoxicated by that detail, like wilting leaves against his skin, though he is the bent one.

He is submissive to even her invisibility.

Like any truest woman of that understood sort, to compare her to the spider, to the serpent, to the disguise upon any face of hers, it is in loathing that we regard it. Deep loathing that never rests. We never take ourselves apart of our own accord, to sleep like rotting logs near a fragile lake. We weep so gently to her curves, falter before her forest where floods the breeze, and hold close the moon that is her face. We cannot lower ourselves, deign ourselves, any further to dispose of such a treat. Though, in her embrace, we matter much, for nothing at all.

Excerpt – Chapter II – “To not Sink a Friend” – Romance Novel – 6/16/2020

Love is the Devil’s madness, as it will remain God’s laughter. We describe how such an injection from a divine one, will be for humans, in their evil, to be something unlike what they simply desire. Blue is the color of tears, while green is the color of growth. Can we have the latter, without the former? We are beautiful when we display growth, though none so much in it, without needed sorrows.

Love enjoys itself upon a man’s base, holding him upright, as the only support, the only life given for himself. A man, German in origin, named Joel Beyer, peers from the window to the melancholy expression of a girl.

Her pain either waits for him, or it waits for itself to close and then disappear. Her face, so entrenched in this gloom, that it might be assumed to, at one moment, spill over at the feet of her. Her eyes cross to the relative, before her, sharing a likeness only in features. For that relative’s attempts, in reviving the girl’s joys, have not proven for fruit. Though, the relative persists.

Her eyes, a cluster of tears. Her face, washed by the marring of a thousand previous droplets, never to cleanse what really wilts her heart, in a revealed frozen aperture.

At a loss, or in loss, is the only description to be given to this one maiden, so otherwise lovely in her declining brownish curls to her neck. A tossing of them by the wind, gives her charm. A slight thrust of her head to the right, makes the somewhat obvious attempt to angle herself away from a certain direction. The window. It is from where Joel is viewing.

His eyes are making a road to her darkness, though with more of warmness to a contrast. He admires, though knows defeat, by the quivering smile, that wants to break in the touch of sadness upon his heart. It is that, by the sight of his face, at once warmth, with the other half being cold, that he seems cut between like part the sun, part the moon. Why the darkness of this girl must be viewed, is revealed by what Joel says, “Lisa. Lisa Johanna. Won’t you unbind that surname from yourself, and simply be my Lisa? Your heart won’t listen. Your mind won’t listen, for it thinks with too much loudness. I want to love, though you resist. You reach for a clock, always wanting time to rush faster than even your tears.”

Rewrite – Novel – “A Pattern, In Love” – Romantic Work – Chapter I – 11/5/2019

She has controlled her beauty with evenness. Symmetry within every detail, and symmetry, especially among her smile. I have asked myself a question, if love would be the thing to hold her hand, or perhaps I have, as a flawed man, all the while.

I speak these words to resonate myself with guilt. It is an emotion without kindness, without reprieve, without the placement of forgiveness rarely given by another. I could weep. I could very well weep. Though, will a hand ever come to me? To pry my shoulder with even the firmest and boldest touch, would suffice. I ask questions, to state whether or not her beauty has also ever sufficed itself, not in terms of attraction, though to know if it has been warm enough. To know, if she has met comfort with her own attraction to it. To know, if she has met love with her own attraction to it.

Love blesses me, has made my heart famous, as though each string connected is one from a violin, and my heart is now the composer, with a thunderous command bellowing from each thump of its beat.

I am inward, and outward, with my eyes closed. I see the void in myself, and the vision of a woman, of whom I love, in reality.

He is inward, and he is outward, a man named Adrian, with barely a surname to be worth mentioning. Strings of his heart, the idlest of ones, are plucked, alike the petals of a tulip, making sensations aloud that reverberate among his form. Those idle strings, are plucked, are like petals, are have a scent, an aroma, much alike the strands to a woman’s hair. His surname, however, should be mentioned, likening itself to the reader’s satisfaction: it is Gautier.

He plays a piano before himself, drawing tunes upon the empty air, making smiles out of his own mouth at occasional moments. Love draws out of his own breath, in fewest words, “What is taking her so long to arrive?”

He is a Frenchman, with a face so rugged, and eyes without color for they are shielded by their lids.

He sees only darkness.

A piano before him, words upon the thoughts of love, and an unmentioned detail is of him swaying his head side to side, as though listening attentively to each thudded key against the wood.

Loneliness is to a man, as shocking as it is to a man, as bewildering as it is to a man, unlike how it is for a woman, which is a normal occurrence. A woman’s heart is a blank slate, before love dots it with the darkest of color. Darkest of brown, or deepest black, is poured upon a woman’s white heart, as her innocence is erased, and womanhood is embraced.

Ah, so man is to be lonely only for a singular reason, when loss weighs heavily upon his upper brows. Enough to close the eyes of this man, so that all he sees is the darkness, and the light that beams in through the open window before him.

He sees nothing, and we can describe nothing of his surroundings. How would it, dear reader, that we are able to describe what our character, Adrian, is unable to witness, for himself? Surely, it is impossible. It would not make sense to do it.

Love is a place of music, whether there be sighs in repetition, or faces marred by tears; we have love, we have its holy emotion in two places, as the sun or the rain. Sun, for joy. And the rain, for grief. Happiness and turmoil are each seeped into love’s domain, and as the rain weighs us, drenches us, as our clothes droop us, we are dried by the sun. We are loved by the sun, in our happiness, and we welcome its warmth. And, we are made miserable by the rain, whenever the rain moves us into depression.

All this relates to Adrian, by what has made his heart flow between joy and sorrow, when one beautiful woman enters into the chamber.