Loss
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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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“No guilt should be felt, upon realizing one is weak, while in love. Love is that, a strength and a weakness. Knees tremble, hands quivers, because we care for what we may lose. Love is that, an emotion that encapsulates all other emotions. We realize that our finding, being that love, cannot go, without us
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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
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“…It can be imagined of a scenario where a man’s wife is no longer the beauty he once knew, who held his life in a place of normalcy, because she has undergone a change due to a disease. One cannot shun the man who does this. It is because a man’s psychology demands him to
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“Is there something more to fight for, than the love that fills the gap, fills the void? The void was not created because something is lost. The void has always been there. It is there because something is missing. Like the main ingredient in a dish, love is the main ingredient in life.” – Modern
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“Of all I’ve grown angered for, it has always been clear in mind that through grief, a person has no clarity. A resolution, a solution, an answer is not met when one is swamped by their own anger, stemming from their own grief. Why has it been, even in recent days, that one movement will
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Her appearance had been, as it still is, a force of endearment over Anton’s visage, washing his face with her colors. Everything he was witness to, during her life, is again, written even now in every crease to his cheeks and lips. It is this way, while he strains to withhold tears. While he strains
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It is somewhat often that a man will find himself to be nestled near to silence, as if his arms were wrapped about the form of a woman. Her comfort is brought into that solace, that silence, because she seemingly has nothing to fear. What of Anton? He raises himself, to form steps with the
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I begged her song to be written for me, in what colors she could pour out, from a throat made of silver. Though, I simply waited while her sigh, the last one, drew out the silver breath from her lungs, against the fiery coldness of winter. Of what I saw, of that silver breath, against
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There was once a time when the poetry I wrote possessed much feeling. Now when I write them, the feelings only bleed out, rather than erupt like a geyser. I rarely feel the “chills” I usually get when listening to my favorite songs, nor do I cry like I used to. I enjoyed weeping when
Modern Romanticism 