Excerpt – “9 Months to Live” – Novel – 1/19/2021

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, than the sadness released from a heart. It is here, when Johnathan carries the weak Lisa, that a crown can be placed upon his head, to label him the monarch of this feud between love and the moment. The moment in which tells him to stare to her, contrasting from the future where there are the lowest clouds smearing fog upon the streets of his mind.

A golden moment, where realization stifles the great steps ahead. For it is why Johnathan has not moved, when there is a loveseat before him. A moment where he may give his praise through a simple stare of his two teeming eyes, where a wilderness inside has sunken through puddles.

Here, a reflection may be witnessed from Lisa, the one who is carried, to the man who loves her. A simple gesture, of his quivering lips, then to two more tears that drop from his eyes to branch forth to his lips, is all to realize the deepest emotions he now evokes. He captains a ship of his own, making no remembrance to the world behind himself, though to keep his path at a constant steadiness for what shall transpire. Of a beauty that shall flake off from his grasp, creating a painting or mural of ashes, scattered in multitude. What sticks them? What remains them, to be set in place? It is the mere act of what is “gone”, to then be wrapped in a blanket inside of Johnathan’s basement of the mind.

A kiss. A solitary one. One replacing the scarring emptiness upon Lisa’s forelorn lips. One that keeps her knit, keeps her heart firm and gathered. One that creates the solidarity for which heeds the moment, though wares the future. Not to suffocate that which could collapse in a distant heartbeat that is a mere second across the field of time, nor to give to Lisa’s remaining grace a greater feebleness. Not to shock, nor to confuse, as this kiss goes to merely shed a sameness of himself, of Johnathan, to bury in her the emotion he has felt for this long-lasting moment.

It awakens her. A kiss that awakens her, as she motions both arms about his neck. She swallows his breath, and glides each of the every little millimeter to her tongue within his mouth. A passion that brings her forth, raises her up, and then loosens her. She is alive, though sick. She is sick, though remains with the fire she keeps alive.

Prose – “When Offering enough Sincerity” – Romance – 4/15/2020

The pallid man sat upon the lonely rocks, counting the stars in the sky to attempt to imagine them as the object he held. A tulip, with the fewest petals still intact. One of them, plucked from his backyard and held close to his face, to breathe the scent of it. He imagined his wife of the stem to her form, and its stigma her gentle face.

He held the poor thing close, steering his neck like a galley above the waves, to see a grave.

He still holds the poor thing close, even upon this day when he can imagine the moon, descending tears like pollen upon his nose.

When he is, he weeps a moon’s shape upon his cheek, so that it may reach his lap. It is where one petal has loosened itself from the tulip’s sepal, and bled a course through the air to his legs. Covered over, they are, by a towel, laid there to wipe this tulip down ever-so gently.

He raises the tulip by its stem, as though he were to raise his once-living wife by her waist, in a dance of merriment.

Lovely and lovely. Her breath, scented like the tulip’s petals, as though that towel, and the fragrance, could be like him raising his departed wife from a bath. What a kiss he lays upon the stigma. Each remaining petal, so alike her cheeks, and he kisses the individual ones.

It gleams, this tulip, in the gentle moon’s rays that come to sprout themselves downwards, and blanket both the tulips and this man’s face with an immaculate hue.

But, all too well, this man knows his heart, knows his pain for how eternal it seems, down in the deepest puddles where his tears have melted from his eyes. Like candles, they were lit, for the wax to come descending to form these small pockets of fluid, yet they are as lakes to him. And, like lakes, not oceans, candles are still held to see a view of a reflection in the surface. He can see beyond to the other end, where a sound is called out from his lips. It is where water has collected, where a gleam glows from his irises, and a falsified fire makes the world fall from him.

Though, he sits upon the shore of an ocean, a small cottage behind him, a grave for his deceased wife to the left of it. He sits there, making lakes at his feet, with a tulip in hand, the ocean before him to share in the making of new bodies of water.

Poem – “At Once, a Tear Replaces Her” – Romance

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.

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.

Poem – “My Final Companion” – Romance

Famous and beaming with red,
Lovely until you fall dead,
With the stead of undying love.
Romance has quaked our realm,
While nectar falls from your breasts,
Live in me, oh, beauty from the North.

Give yourself to me,
My final companion.
We shall live and die with the union.
We shall make poetry from our voices.
Our marriage will bloom for many morrows,
And will sow seeds for crops to be reaped.
For a multitude of marriages
To be spawned from our one.

You are lovely, and fit for this occasion,
Your aura inspires awe.
Your face is a wilderness,
For me to be lost.
Your eyes are a darkness,
For me to be displaced.

Grow the garden for our nourishment,
And make merry the words that we’ve kept.
Do not long more for another,
When we drown beneath sheets of purple silk.
Famed are we, under faces that see
Our happiness and our home.
Made for governance to be
A lovely family, so close are we.

Poem – “Your Youth and your Resplendence” – Romance

Save me, graces,
The bleeding wound,
In me,
Has long thought of to be free.
Your idleness matches
My failure. And to the ship,
Where there are sailors,
They mask themselves in the breezes.

Fate awaits me,
Her dying body is a shelter,
One that throws love overboard.
Underneath my feet,
There are many serpents.
There are many insects I have crushed.

There is a face,
One so smooth and so round,
One so much attuned with life,
That it mocks me.
By a smile,
With teeth that are porcelain-white.

Death came natural to her,
As life comes to me, as futility.
Her youth and her resplendence,
So white and so vivid,
That I desire to devour it,
Beyond the lighthouse.

Come as she may,
Oh, woman of tragedy.
To the faults of every mire,
Of every sea and every sire.
Of every tombstone that grows higher,
To love, and to her arms, is all I desire.

Poem – “I, as the Husband to Misery” – Romance

I crawl and dwell,
Where faces embrace my Hell.
Where love is most potent,
Is where my misery is frenzied.

There are demons in this place,
This wasteland of remembrance.
This place so small,
I wish it would grow tall.

I am a husband to misery.
It is because of how late the fallen evening
Has begun.
Roses sprout along the sides of walkways.
Am I in love with them?
They do not move with the wind.

I am not a husband to any eternity.
One that I’d fathom, to be eternal, as long
As the world grows sideways.
It extends as vast as my lonely heart.
Is all the world two-dimensional?
As flat as people themselves?

We seem to live,
In a world that’s lost touch with the three,
To make a family.
I am a husband to cruelty.

A wickedness I’ve seen so very vividly,
It has coursed itself over me,
It has run over my face,
As endless tears.