Fiction
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A grave. Open and wide, like a mother’s arms. Water comes in from pouring rain, filling up that gap, as the soil absorbs nothing. He sees the scenery in me, the mirror. The mirror, another one of them, although there is only one of me in this corner of Dan’s room. Only one of me
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She tells my pain to wait. As if water can fall after I’ve twisted a knob to a faucet. This heart, twisted, knotted in its infinite veins, spread like tree roots to an age of a tree that has already fallen. These eyes have gained flashes. All those empty rooms, filled with one more hollow
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Herein lies a crippled horse. He struggles to find a way to walk. Tears have left him burning on a slope that moves his eyes always down. Why will he always look down? To feet that never move him. To scars that never leave him. They are remade to be ripples within hardening soil, though
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Love remains a fire, roaring in a man’s heart. One long look runs out towards a feeble horizon much like a rope. A rope, a link from one journey to its never-ending stay. He can see that sun falling. It falls, as one tears can, patient upon its place to his cheek. Those tears do
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Life comes in ripples. Satisfaction arrives in miniature; it has been said to her, while any evidence had never been whole. In this monarchy of her ways, she gloats without true glow. She taunts an image inside her mirror without always looking its direction. She sees herself. She knows herself, simply as too spirited. A
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He held her at arm’s length, counting his feathers. Softness around him. Eyes of an eagle, the beak of an ancient pterodactyl. All to see, with all to bite from flesh. With all those things he saw, he saw himself to swiftly bring close her life in a sharp cancellation. Their romance, a feud with
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I For Sickness, for Shame The time has come. The time did come. When bedsheets are folded over as pages of a Bible, turning to scriptures written to the weight of loss in the heaviness of the physical copy; and the water comes to take the end away. The sun rose, and then it was
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Head on the pillow. Her head in his arms, here daydreaming of the days when he would do that. When he would hold her, the rain fell upwards from her eyes. When he would hold her, the stars were only ever beneath herself. Far beneath, she had been held, as she now is stretched across
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The dream. Our dream. Our eyes are matched, upon the surface. The walk. My steps are not from the cross, not from the Virgin Mother. I cannot find a way to take this journey. I am as poor as these grains of sand, upon this beach where I stand. He cannot press his foot onto
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Their version of history. Their eyes. Caught. In a spiderweb of memories, both lovers; no, something more connected; a husband and a wife are here to recall, not renew, their vows. Together, until death do the both of them apart. Until the rottenness of flesh will tear one asunder into the earthen grey, while the
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At the edge of a vast ocean, the quantity of water that shows both reflection of our faces and stars, the hanging lights that we see from both angles; and we are wishing for something to stretch our hands out for. Maybe when the miles were longer, we were crippled of our backs and shattered
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To assure the solemn, then begin to reassure that one in those depths. Assuming first that a man here is not crying because of the weather, as no dark clouds exist within the sapphire-blue skies. Omit then that they could have been the culprit to his mood. If the sun is great and bright, then
Modern Romanticism 