When upon the time in a distant romance, When love once guarded her form, When a frame had guarded a painting, When my arms had guarded truth, I knew for once in my life, That my home is not this home; It is the space in her heart, And upon a face, where quivers an aching smile, I would die to know her, again, And make beauty remember me for the while.
Death has shaped her space, A black heart has now formed tendrils, Corruption has made its presence, Am I still in love, or have I made death? When modesty once placed itself about her, As the love I made to guard her, It was always a remembrance, It was always a field of achievement, It held a texture alike to those cheeks, The ones I kissed adoringly.
My beauty, make we weep, Beneath the moon of the evening melting Of its silver coloring, in where I repeat, “Make we weep! Beloved, make me weep.”
I breathe dust now over your shoulders, And find merriment only among petals, Where your tresses caught the air.
Flesh now guards my skeleton, and I’ve grown old, Like the robes loose about the monk, Like the hair loose about a woman, Like the tears loose about the eyes, Like the serpent coiling about the lie.
Love, with a breast I cup in one hand, And your face in the other, Would you rise if I kissed the mouth, That said we weren’t worth the long road?
Petals have fallen, over a naked leaf, The soil has been where I found thee laying, Frozen and dead, with a mark upon thy forehead, The mark of terror. The mark of a beast. The mark from a man, Who knew your heart, taken to keep.
Beloved, with thy tranquil eyes, That I still see, beneath this frail temple, You have hair alike the moss, That has grown over your mausoleum. Beauty made luminescent, By a face now dead, as I imagine all.
Beloved, there is nothing so alive to see, Than my delusion being real. My hands tremble when they extend, For the face gone from this world, For the life gone from this world. Wherever thou be, thou is gone.
Denial has been my labor, Intensive, in its strain. My mind, is now once more, Weary and heavy. Corruption has drawn out tendrils, And through them, I speak words:
“Where was love in its blackness, Where was love in its light, To it, now bare in darkness, To it,now bare in sight.”
My sweet, kiss my bitter lips. My love, how shall we dine on my guilt? My beauty, with everything sweet to see, My bitterness, is yet exquisite.
Under moon and star, Under faces apart, In love and lust in fire, Far, we walk, under the endless fog, To find a memory that was once pleasant. Dream with me, dear woman.
Your black hair comes in long strands, Down to where it reaches your toes. Your lashes, your eyes, and your fingers, All have curves to see, alike the earth, And its curvature. See me as former, never as latter.
Rawest pain and purest shame, Has encompassed me in highest notes. There is memory in my mind, Tears in my eyes, Each one, dropping upon soil at my feet, Feel this with me, dear woman.
Is there Hell to separate us? Is there Heaven to unite us? Is there family to be made, When we die tonight on the frozen rocks?
Beauty has marked my way, By dismembered flesh. This is a tale of remembrance, To one loss, that pined my heart. One that left me aching, One that left me wanting.
Oh, father. When shall you return? Grief has left me with stains Of the countless struggles beneath swaying grass, And petals that fall to my hands, Leave me to count the steps, if you may. Leave me, for you’ve felt not the need to stay.
No blame, upon not even the sickness, I am only in mere longing, from your absence, Your guidance, a shelter that was so aware, To the shadows I cast from myself. To the faces that seem to forget, I hold upon my throne a note that I’ve kept:
One note that reads, “There is much challenge to overcome, Much to see, and much not to believe, There is much wisdom to know, And much more not to show, Nor to share, nor to care.”
I had believed until now, that the world deserves promise, I had believed that the many smiles were true, And until I grew to know, that there’s deceit, Among faces swollen with pride, Among hearts said to be alive. And, among the rest, there we have infant apples.
Few would dare to show themselves, In a world so unkind, as kind. Few would dare to realize the waking tension That bellows the flames around their mark, Into the forests or meadows Of either Heaven or Hell.
We live, as we are, under skies gray and barren, With a wilderness as our hearts, Solid and strewn in the world’s deceit. And I have lost the guidance. I’ve become among it, the deceit and the swelling tension; Fires and waters, making the earth spark and shimmer.
Go well with it, we have faced kingdoms and death. Of grief and pangs of anger, of emperors beheaded. Of despair, confusion, and the overcoming Of a manufactured fame. We were never the ones to earn the world’s trust, As like anyone, whose purpose is it.
We were organic in our compelling, And makeshift in our failings. As humans, we felt the urge to bereave Over that which we hold close To bosoms and hearts, When the latter may never start.
It is winter, and upon this season, Cold compels me to draw close The numbness. The havoc winter brings, to others, Shall bring comfort, upon me. And never will I find beauty to be a cause.
Love, I’ll not ever lose this hold, Among your hair, there are scoops of debris, And among your cheeks, there are flowers agleam, While among your lips, there are words stilled and silent, As your chin was dipped in ashes, And beholds a pale hue for myself to see.
Start weeping, and I will lose myself, Your form is rotted and stilled, And still do I see the colors that surround, Your naked self, When I had dipped my feet in your honey. Oh, beauty! You have such a worldly complexion!
I ache, and I break, when the world takes us both. Love finally crashes its own waves on the shoreline, As I lean down to kiss you, For but a moment in utter bliss. Complete me, my torment and my woe, My dream, my sky. My endless goodbye.
Make of the torment, What thou will, Make of it. The priests call cues of negligence, Make faces ripe with consequence. And deliver judgement, Like God in deliverance. Oh, woman! A passion of mine.
A careful consideration, To what may be beautiful, Has long been beautiful, Beside me, in her endearment. Beauty makes apples, And apples for breasts.
I am tired of loathing The external, Of my sordid disposition, Of my farewell declaration. Of my mimicked beauty, Of all you see of me.
Let me lick thy throat, For guilt has overthrown me, From the crown of achievement. Deceit! Give me wielding, Of all immeasurable beauty. Have I North before South?
Have I lips before groin? Have I mind before loin? Lovely is her exterior, so vivid with life, Aromas, and the fertility of the soil. Of ocean breeze, and Autumn leaves. Of stillness in death, and stillness in love.
I make of her, what I have always willed, Until the day I dine on her form.
It is a form of violet ashes, and much to be mused.
Fallen, and frozen, From, my cold cheek, To her form of white, and cloaked in death. Where warmth, turned bleak, And Heaven, drew a line, on her, raw flesh, I, too, drew a mark, on sculpted skin, Until sadness, was all I felt.
A mark, A name, as mine, Like mine, is mine, It was the mark, to unity. An abandonment, of my pride, My fame, my graces, my stature, Into, simplicity.
Here are roaring tears, for the woman I knew, And loved, as though, she were My child, born from, a cradle of straw, I loved her; indeed, I loved her. Her face, so round, and eyes, agleam, A body, so full, and arms, so long, I measured her, in my truest place.
My heart, is now, a place of grief, I sing, its song, I sing, the unmerciful song, That has placed hatred, on my soul, Sorrow, has morphed, Pain, has absorbed, All the soil, beneath my feet.
Her face, encased in ice, Winter, has made a fine print, Love, has been replaced, With a tear. Beauty, has been replaced, With a sculpture, of ice, And I still, draw it close, for a kiss.
As my arms extend outwards, To reach for what I had lost, There’s only the air, And only a strand of hair, To embrace, I have touched the edge of a bed.
I have made my home a nest, Of emptiness. I have become one with Loneliness and grief. It is because of an agony, One with so much melody, Within her gruesome cries, To my eyes.
And outwards, my arms grope, For the burning rope, Where she once hung, As if executed, Upon wooden gallows. For the world to see, and to bury me, Beneath a tide of grief. Oh, love! Have you gone away from me?
The feeling of its infinity, Mocks the place of my belonging.
There, too, is our destiny, Where wishes surface in a pool of blood, In a heart so burdened by memory.