Fiction
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Her heart, long and venomous was ever the sadness that chimed upon the strings. Could I? To stoop my head low to gift a kiss to her notes, would I then fade? As she, being the one who wishes to be vapor, I’d gather it in my lungs at this final leap. Pioneered for the…
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He believed more in betrayal, than that of love. Watched, as the stars kissed his cheeks. Waited, as the haze melted him into a portrayal of surrender. Laughed, as the clouds mocked him among their height. He kept something. A locket. Of a face with two roses for cheeks, blush for the sake of the…
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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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Short Prose & An Example of a Blogger’s Life – 200 Words – “For your Love” – Romanticism – 2/19/2021
For what will transpire, I will breathe a thousand more words. Though, the one that is saved, is straight from the heart. While you were true, I merely lied half of the time to reach you. While you were real, only half of my heart stuck to this. Though, I could cry upon all the…
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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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It is to him that this pain, in deepest relation to his wife, can be a thing that reminds him of the moment. As love cradles, so does the ocean become carried with a few droplets that disperse from this man’s eyes, adding more to the flood. For nothing else darkens more of a wave,…
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“Oh, care that I felt for you, above all else. I never mattered for a moment, in this world. If to keep you afloat was always my aim, then may I drown with content. To be angered at you, when hearts came to a close, was only ever because I could care for nothing else.…
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“Pictures to be taken of a few moments before the final gust pushed itself from her lungs, made as mementos for my eternal keeping. If not to burn of grief, then to always look upon them, even to my own mind, for sight upon memorial. Love sings, with notes of no words added, being of…
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How many tears can I hold, in arms, that do not carry the future? I cannot even carry the present forward, for I hold the blame in me. I hold the scars close, the present watered from my eyes, with the blue seas around my feet. Land is so far away. Same with daylight. Though,…
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“How can hope, be this sick?” says he, to the fog of himself, before the mirror’s idleness. For a reflection’s sake, love is his only teardrop to come forward, marking his humanity into the glass. It is at his feet. It is a puddle, mirroring him. A photograph. Of a woman, to the world. To…
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We cannot look at love as anything other than a mode of stillness. Captivation. Here, a woman named Lisa breathes, brought down upon a loveseat from her husband, Jonathan, and his hands. He has kissed her forehead, remaining damp to his lips from exertion. A wandering smile, darts from East to West across his mouth,…
Modern Romanticism 