Grief
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Recognizable cost.Territorial loss.I am even with your thoughts,holding your trembling hands. Fabling on dimmest realities,screaming in closetsfor closure’s clarity. Losing our trail,on a crippled horse.Moving backwards,while weatherkeeps getting worse.I leave bottles opento count dropletsin unified rush. One barren journeyto see where we dividedour asymmetrical petals.Washing our eyes with soil,flooding a spacebeneath our feetwith dried tearstains.
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I laid you, bare.I sealed you. To see you,dressed without dare,adorned without honorto these eyes that stare. All those roomsto empty you,with these paintingsto represent you.You fade in a bedtimeof shadows,taped to the ground. Black dresspinned to a wall.White corridorswith blurred photographscapturing your wails.I trapped youto refer you, to inter you,to wait until you hear
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Walk your hurdles overto surrender yourself tothe chase. Every inchthat leaves you more amused,you’ll find what awaits youin a place that does notdefine your space. You haveonly succeeded inreusing old playgrounds. Step on flowersif it makes you excited,if it drives your thrillpast the moonwe both aimed for. Scorn the sunthat ignites your flesh,reveals your wounds,blames
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Here’s to what bledand burned, fated from rustinto a stream of sleepless dustfor washed out eyes,from extinguished sighs.I’ll hide behind these shadows,pretending you’re here,seeing snow as onlyanother chapter to grow. I find that our worldwas built to count meteorsfalling like teardrops,finding their placelike water for a rose.I sensed an apocalypse,before you shelteredin dreaming darkness.I sensed
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For you, I will remainholding your handin growth, in sickness,beside a bed decoratedin blanketing shadows.You surround, as contoursto reflective puddlesbrought down for my feetto dance upon,to catch a newest drizzlefrom sobbing eyes. I hold your rain in my heart,your hand, even whenwe are realms apart. I embed your stains like black puddleswithin rivers, where grief
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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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Feint. Ingloriousto the thuds of formsagainst the gentle earth.One blooming pair of lipsare rounded in flesh,born to undressone body dressed in black. With all the tears of Neptune,sighing in eternity’s doom.For arms, lovers walkedwithout miles to skip.Under stars, lovers talkedcaught in the moonlight’s anchorthat brought them buriedelsewhere. For toil,above the soil,she carried his heartfar into
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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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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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Still youKeep running the tears that toMankind’s hurts, in the war for bloodied dirtFollow wails, will lead to worse.Leave sorrow as dewTo make the mourning as morningWithout the sleep of the sunStaying where we are entering. While love is warm, apartFrom faces scarred,We keep the bullets entering hearts – We send forth showers, towards eyes
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“It is grief that stains the living soul. It is not peace with the bereaved, since it is peace with the dead. Those who grieve are in pain, because they wish to be with the dead. To recover from this, reverse the wish to be with them, to the understanding that the dead live on
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Still-life. A stilled life. He weeps to form a garden made from her debris. He weeps, and he cannot even leave. He weeps the funeral back into togetherness, to the final time in being the blank witness to a sunshine that distanced itself so well. It was the final time to view the light, even
Modern Romanticism 