“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
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 look at me as just another leaf.
Have I fallen? No one will raise me, if I have.
When I picked you up, I showed my strength. I showed colors.
Though, upon this time, have I decayed? Do I show no colors? Am I merely the leaf who cannot comprehend the Autumn, of that arrangement of beauty?
I’d be a sparkle drifting from your hair, or a drop of moisture from your shoulder. I’d be a smile fading into a frown.
Of every ocean I have cried to create, I’d be just another droplet among the rest. I’ll be a remainder, not a reminder. As no hero walks his path, without eventual departure, love only conflicts. Love restricts the freedom, binds the limbs, keeps the mind burdened by focus.
As more lies can be creative than the truth, I cannot stop without knowing the latter. To look through your eyes, advance to winter, to become not a fallen leaf, though as a passing chill of wind, I might remind you, and only you, of what I was. A child, becoming a man, to soon descend to a former immaturity. Though, in your mind, I could perhaps be raised.
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 into your arms, there was light. Though, upon the day when the promise was torn, there was to be me, reborn.
Like love never held meaning. It was the silence of myself, to become the howl of the aching beast. I was to, as it was perhaps the simplest gesture, to depart across the waves. For this ocean had been made from both our pairs of eyes. As streaming tears, of some black, with others clear and blue.
I could not suffer, not for a second more in this time of blindness. I could not, for if I did, I’d merely have you to look upon. Just the aches, in this vision of darkness, while you in my mind was not to the light for my eyes.
Not for a moment more, could I see the reflection. Not for any more moments, could I suffer myself, through you. Through your gaze, in the woe of an elongated promise. Here is you, the angel of a mistake of mine. I had broken your wings under a sinking vow. Like a ship that never docked, left to find solitude in the ocean’s cracks.
What could I, as the man without a grip upon his sane self, comprehend of your own gestures? You waved, when I had set sail to the waves. You cried, while I did, too. You sighed, along with the winds to myself, breathing over the ocean as the sea did, too.
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 is one that clogs itself within the white. A black cloud, that I cannot pass away. Ah, such disappointment from an almost forgotten time, when sadness was brought in a scenery of this love. It was when the rope nearly strangled her neck, and was when I would have joined her. To stoop, to fall, in the grave after her. How could she, among too many others, see the pain that has wreaked havoc in me, over her continual danger? To where it originates? It originates from love. It originates from the depths of love. It originates from wherever love was birthed.
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, to the winds, where my truth, my outpouring cries could indeed be heard.
Love. The only emptiness to be had, webbing my heart like I was the fly. To its death, and then, to be held inside my mind, as if God were the spider.
I do not bleed. I only have lost.
Love is something I can exhale, to embrace the remnants of something so related to vapor. Of some face held, to some field wept upon, to raise stems with the petals. They can all lay at my feet, those petals, and still appear as fallen autumn leaves. What is my depression, as only a kind of ache, without its understood ending? No story leaves pages emptied, just like the painting cannot be made with blankness remaining.
Love is that, for I can see something that is so blackened. So much darkened, in a void that was once colored, though is now the opposite. I hold a strand of my own hair. I hold it, as I perceive its grayness. How can it be, when I am still so young?
The years behind me, moving forward to place my steps, I can see no light. Like no light were waiting for the ship I captain, to be set safely ashore. As if no island had been waiting with a weeping sort, to welcome home my presence. As if I were to become a stranded vessel, having hit the shore with an concussive impact. I shattered against stone, sounded in tune with the frailty of my own heart.
For it is that he dreams. He melts himself, masking a future by what is behind him, hidden in the snow. Love is a shower of cold for him, whether too many hidden secrets have shared the warmth of ice, or the glints of the fresh snow. If too many hints of a nothingness have grasped at him, like memories of what had been, then it can be no longer.
How alike, to a woman, where his memories are forged. How so much similar to a womb, they are released, though born backwards? Strangled by the stem of sustenance, by the umbilical cord. So much the image of a leader hanged. No future, for nothing of the head can carry his body forward.
Pain is his sustenance, breathing on fumes that choke. Fusing himself with the stench, that only ever a certain history gave for intoxication.
How alike, to a woman, where his face shows itself for a kiss. So much for a kiss, that rips apart at this woman’s face. It crumbles, as each fold of a lip is tied together with her. Two faces, mourning over the loss of the self, the loss of self-understood truth. How breakable, the both of them, when they never turned within the grave to see each other.
Upon the death of some stained truth, love became their wish, once more, in the eternity of sleep. In a death of hearts, love motioned them into stillness. Their faces would not receive the other, in any conceived smile.
Passive, in a dark corner of his personal world, where this man shelters himself. He churns, like some somber child. His face speaks the same language as his quivering hands.
How does the world close itself, of its bottomless horrors, when this man merely wishes to fly? Running offers him comfort, though to only more shadows? Love does not ever start another fire, over the sick and loud memories that stammer his voice.
His eyes hold music boxes, while his fingers twang the heartstrings of some instrument recorded to the former. The return of simplistic playback, the music that possess no authentic value, controls him in his heart. Why has darkness formed an empty road? Why has death made his life walk backwards?
How is it, that with eyes opened wide, he can see no light?