Tag: Poet

Grief stills me
In dying sleep,
For I have drunk too many tears
To see where my years
Shall carry me.
My fingers lift
To feel the warmth of a fading sun,
To bleed caught sorrows
Over the evening’s forsaken tomorrows.

Some stilled picture,
Some glimmering reflection
Of her, in the sky
Where darkness can mimic my pledge,
My vow
As now
My lips are always buried
In the soil, where she hurried
Far from my arms.

Some frame,
Some portrait
Where love does not follow
Me, in heaviest sorrow.

One face,
One certain grace
That had bested me
In grandest peace.

Oh, radiation
Of your head to your arms,
You have become won.
Like leaves that have met the sun,
In autumnal tempests
Of sorry rain to reach the streets,
Of droplets from your face
To cover your hands.
You can twist
Strain from your eyes,
You can merge
Your petals with the gravel
As you lay to writhe.

Just a closure
To a standing truth
That you have formed yourself out of darkness.
I have won
What can become
A searing gleam.
A fever,
To sever
The wind from your lips,
The streams from your stare,
The yearning from your pulsing
Chest.
Can you stand the sickness?

A light,
One solitary blight,
One feeble moment
Where everything drowns
Under the ton
Of unmerciful waters,
Draining from heated mind,
Swimming from watered shine
Upon your cheeks
Where kisses are laid, deep.
One droplet of blood
Careens down from a slope,
Weathers thoughts in your sleep.

Blood-red leaflets
Of autumnal scribblings
Shower praises,
Staunch phrases,
Leave pages
Untied of her demise,
Loosened of her chosen
Life,
And to the grave where she
Keeps her silence,
I have grown a blood-red
Rose.

Bleeding
Heavy traces
Where cutting flesh
Is for the faces
Wearied by shock,
Toiled of the painter’s smock,
Captured by the wandering clock
That drowns scent
Of blood, in iron wells
Where I can rise,
And she can drown.
This, too, I can grow from.

Love is the iron maiden
Where I can be closed
In a deathly embrace,
Leaving
Fluid-like traces
Of red,
Smoking in the sunrise,
Setting in the sunset
The smell of menthol
Upon the iron ash tray.
I leave kind unknowings
To the books, that are lost.

Despite me,
You can rise
On wings folded by fire,
Through eyes,
That despite me
Can rinse the terrors free
To a glance of so much becoming
Nature,
Lifting free
The stains that have lasted.

Despite me,
You can swing
From edge to edge.
You can empty me,
So that you can join the solace,
Of a time away
Where my yearning takes place.
I simply long
For my failures to never be,
For my fingers to never seep.

Despite who I am,
You can be who you are
In the cold night,
During the brightest days.
Despite the darkness of me,
You can cry with tears that share
The same light
As the flame of the sun.

Despite what I’ve become,
You can place your feet
In the glimmering puddles,
Drinking flavors,
Of your eyes, raining joy
Where once was sadness.
I wish I could join you
In your furthest place.

How long until Heaven holds us
Within wings that can shelter
Our oldest night?
We have beauty racing everywhere,
Where majesty falls,
As love can be for the shine upon the temple
That says,
“Tomorrow is forever.”
How can love die?
How can it?

You were told
That death could cease
All things to be.
You were told
That our eyes cannot see
The dreams that can one day be
Like the kiss that soothes.

I will crawl to you, on naked limbs
To be sure you believe, otherwise.
Love is the nest
As I am its maker,
The caress,
The sweetest flavor
From a kiss that soothes.

Here is a lake
For you to swim,
For your eyes to drown
To take the spiders away
From your hair.

Here are my arms
For you to sink yourself,
For your face to settle
To take the sadness away
From your heart.

I crawl
From graves that remind
Me, of the agony
That took you, alive.
As I ache
I will remain to break
With arms that squeeze the life
From me,
As I saw you
With eyes that failed the sunlight,
And a heart that was lost
In the plummeting dark.

Like two steps around
Your carved, broken heart,
I fell along
The sting
That fate brings.

I see what love can hold,
As it is nothing to escape from.
Just a mere puddle
With a face that never turns
Far from me.

In the tears that once bled
From your eyes,
I held the gleam,
I stayed the seams
That would break to bring the flood.
I wanted,
Though did not make
The simplest times,
Come alive.
And, as you lay there,
None of our greatness can be adored,
No smile can ever come ashore.

To those who would fail you,
Realize the word
In that I love you.
For why your rain stops,
I have caught tears
In hands that have shared yours,
Beside the lakes where dreams
Can be extinguished,
Where lies
Can be made our agonies.
I have held you
In worlds apart.

Sickness and rain,
While life grows from a fragile teardrop,
There is the here,
As here is the way
We shall depart from decay.

Your form can ease,
For I do hold.
I do not scold,
Not revealing the monster to you,
Though to those who disregard us.

I want life
Rising from your eyes.
I want death
To vanish from our world.
I want dust to turn to gold
As we can reveal ourselves to the sunlight
Catching birds,
Exchanging words,
Seeing what should not have been
Come next in line.

White-petaled covers
Over a mattress, made of black
Velvet,
Caressing the back of one pallid beauty.
Her dreams come as nightmares,
Wading as the furnace
To heat her face, pound her heart,
Receding time like the grayest ocean
To a former shore.

Just a dead love,
That wed too quickly,
And died too helplessly.
Tearstains
Mock the song of the future,
While bleakness
Treasures weakness.

Unceasing pain
To the woman who lays
Running waters from her eyes to her heart,
Open and wide
Like the sun that receives Neptune,
To drench the flames,
To remind, of one diseased present.

Wilted, like ebony fog
That seeds the coast,
Waters the ship’s hull and deck,
For her porcelain sickness
Of a captured countenance
That trembles, simply trembles
Beneath an ocean, not ever there.

Glares of rust,
As my hands sift past curtains
Blocking memories from needed
Intrusion.
My fault becomes evident,
A quieted belief
Of some Spirit, full of Holiness,
Radiant in wherever Temple was built
To house this guilt
Of sin, immortal,
Of loathing, endless
Of those dripping at the end
Of a stained blade.

My life,
Woeful,
As my wife
Lies crippled in blanketing fears.
Why memories must
Turn fault to the glaring rust,
While I
Face the shades,
To die.
Sickness,
Disgrace,
Failure
To my empty grace.

Why do I choke on blackness?
Why do I swallow decay?
The strewn pages, torn from some book
I cannot say defined me.

Her eyes,
They burn a magnificence.
Her features,
Now stagnant upon the rocks.

Tomes, and shields,
Merciless, for fields
Of carcasses strewn,
For wounds never sewn.

I am my own blood
For the woman in that bed
Of eaten sheets
By the absurd love,
I could not hold
High above.

Worlds apart,
And the stench of decay duly fits.