Flash Fiction
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A burial. You are my tomb. My place, in the world, is forsaken. Upon you, I will rot, decay and slumber. In your arms, I am lost. I do not heal, for I am lost. I have always burned a trail for my feet to carry me. I have executed innocents, for the sake of
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I lay here, recounting the days that you have said those words upon the lakes. Upon where ripples cast ever greater waves, while loosening tides from your eyes, to your lips. There is great sickness, here. There is great powerlessness, here. Among me, so much is torn. Among you, there is much more to be
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How upon a river, when that stream comes as tears, you’d ever be swept aside? My hands are disfigured, so unlike yours that bare themselves to the sunlit moon. Mine do tremble, beneath my face that has been smeared. Smeared by ash, while your hands are not with scars, though with the purity I’ve kept.
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Why ever do rightness unto another, when distrust is gathered upon you, blanketed by those I once did love? It is you I love, yet it is they I am forced to resent. It is you I am forced to say is the most important essence. That, to go back to a former time, would
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How often does a memory last, wrapped in the thorny shrub of one’s heart? I’ve often twisted myself on the realization that love is something that can be forgotten. Though, for how was my youth, it was only naivety that swung me in that direction. Love is never a rope traded, for a heart on
Modern Romanticism 