Fiction Writing
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“Repetition is a cruel splash of the hardest hail upon our faces. Of life, where moments matter more than dreams. Of love, where sadness speaks more than the moments that indeed fade. For life, a person will always gain. For love, a person will always lose.” – Peter A.W. Wyatt
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Everything. It depends on the eyes. What do you see, when you look at myself? What do the Autumn leaves comprehend of Autumn? What do the fallen understand of the beauty in that arrangement of colors? Fire is what leaves a trail of decay. Scattered debris, a teeming season of fossils, as you can indeed
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I couldn’t suffer for a second more. I couldn’t suffer. Breaking the promise, was to break my own heart. Shattered as the Earth, when tears rain as the meteor shower. Like stars, breaking my hemisphere. Breaking my divide, between needed diversion from insanity. For I had found my mind, straight into your own heart. Straight
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A: How much to ever feel anger for? B: Nothing and everything. A: Do you love her? B: Like nothing could be loved. A: Do you trust her? B: Like everything could be trusted. A: Where does your anger originate? B: My love for her, though it may pass mountains as mostly fair clouds, there
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I have lifted. I have always cried. Of stones that were carried in my arms, while tears fell from them, soon as they were squeezed. I was expected. To release truth, I was expected. Like love was something I could fall through, beating my heart, burning in my skull. I released. I let go myself,
Modern Romanticism 