Grief
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Collect me, Or, correct me, While winter freezes the season Into an autumnal summer. Petals fall with the rain, As life grows In the stain, From wilted irises Cast down Towards ever-wandering Feet.
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Petals, drawn out of eyes,Washing on, running onFrom the place they laid upon. A mind full of symmetry,Mindful of jealousyMoving forth to shortcomings,Laid flat in the long-termOf a presidency voted in by grief, Washing ashore, eyes to seekThe stagnancy in the idle blueOf skies that never drop,With hearts that never stop. Wandering with cruel disclosureUpon
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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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She holds a smile in her hands, while filming the ocean’s sounds with her heart. Sounds that return to her, upon when the waters lick the shoreline. Sounds that matter only to a world that never responded quick enough, upon when sickness took her beloved. A world that only gave a whisper from a dying
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The funeral strikes the hour,As I waltz pastThe raining petalsThat do not,RepeatingDo notBurn, nor tearApart, at their solaced shower. Her hair falls back, lifeless,Never againTo be brushed by the hand,My hand,Facing the floor,Soaring towards the naked shoreWhere eyes can glimpse my stroking tears. I had loved,Meagerly loved,Simply lovedThe rose gathered amongstAll these forgotten petals.Her face,A
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Breaking between syllables, this painter is lost in his wreckage. A void for discovery’s sake, to see a face that looks back to his pain, to the absence. As this memory unites with himself, a hollowness begins to become so apparent in its torture. Just a single pang of loneliness, doubt, and uncertainty to keep
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Just a wellTo dump the contentsOf her eyes.Deep blue as Neptune’s children,AwakenedAs puling infants,Close to no mother,Close to no otherBut the cruel hands of a Father,Of God’s sheltering darkness.For sheCan swear He created Hell. Water the cries,To water them, more.Water the lilies, upon the current to the brook,Draped as curtainsOver the stepping stone.She has lost
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Stilled,Without a sign to the breathThat would raise youTo feel the morning’s showerAgainst your cheeks,To receive the gleamThat can display lifeFor your acrylic eyes. I could paint youIn the way you are,Blossomed from a rose in a grave,Written out as a song of sleep,As to you, I could not save,Though death whispered its lullaby. MarksCreasing
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You turnThe blue from the storm,Leaving me to grapple the wavesBy my hands,Upon this desolate landWhere the ripples break me. You churnThe waters beneath my crutches.I rotate these handlebars, slowly,To fathom your deepest apologyThat came riding from your mouth,When the last breath was taken. Like a church that never met winter,Like a lake that never
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“How much grief is in the world, that one wishes for the return of life, rather than the rest of it?” – Modern Romanticism They will say that the mind still functions, for a time, after the heart has stopped. They say that during this, the mind is reliving memories. Though, wouldn’t it be possible
Modern Romanticism 