I turn around to repeat, In careless repetition, All vows and emotions, upon a plate of fate, You deny what was offered, From a dying God, From a man with all the might to his fight, His eyes were upon you, And faced the enormous creation, Of a statue in what he’d not undo, A love from all broken strings, Upon one delicate harp, Upon one frozen heart.
I fought to cleanse the hate from my plate, From the dish that served rather coldly, All the misfortune I spent for a night, For you to eat up my words.
You are the child at the feet of God, Born with wings, aflame, Though, are crawling with those who are lame, There is idleness to your eyes, And serpent shapes to your fingers. I was born to love and to swallow tears, Puddles glisten in my palms, Overflown upon what gently lingers, The subject of pain placed at my heel, Born to desert, and gracefully feel.
Your eyes are the scorn in the desert, The desert wind under my command, Is all to make me a man.
The faces in their frequent shadows, Their hearts in puddles so shallow.
Face me, dear woman, with torn heart, All memories come barreling down, Upon the corner of our wilderness.
In the meadow of a tearful love, Where droplets of dew form on grass, There is your face of its gentle sight, For my truest love made to last.
“The heart races for one reason, to let one know the sound of a march; for there have been as many lovers upon this Earth as there have been deaths of bloodied soldiers.”
Between birds and stones, flesh and bones, we sing that song of love as like a message on the wind; though, where does it stray? It strays nowhere, if the lover remembers, and keeps hold of moments beneath trees as old as time. Surrender to it, and this means to surrender to the shudders from your heart. The heart races for one reason, to let one know the sound of a march; for there have been as many lovers upon this Earth as there have been deaths of bloodied soldiers. They drank the contents that flowed up into the esophagus, that should have been contents touched not by the flight of indifference, though by the comfort of love.
“I am too indebted to move onward from this flame, the love we are holding close to ourselves,” says a man with a glass of rose wine to his lips, staring upon a nude before himself, with glances heavy and long, “Your eyes, magnificent in shape; your form is a plaza of many stands, each showing ripened fruit for the occasion; and how I would hold a pair of breasts alike pears to be swallowed whole.”
Love is a sculpture, beheld before a man as a woman of his making, of the wholeness to his honesty; and, nothing is allowed to break it, for him to retreat back into the waves where his loneliness resides.
He approaches the woman, with flame to his mind, burning all weariness from former attraction to an enemy of rest. To a workforce, that had bought his time and sold him his fortune, for a place among a union of degraded and futile; they had all aimed to see a future too far. Too far, and too unknown, for love remains as the most unexpected thing to manifest itself before a one, and it is a wall.
He names himself as the “broken one” to her, before nestling his head in a bed of flesh. Warmth surrounds as easy as the sun may surround the Earth, so it isn’t winter upon every morsel of land.
“Does a man treat love as a game? If so, then his woman will play along to the beat of however he plays her heart. She will dance to betrayal, so to speak, as his loss of loyalty will be the music of betrayal. To a woman, betrayal is subtle, and seen first by her, though kept as a secret for her gossip. How does a woman lie? It is through what she observes, and in what she has accepted to be the truth, even if what she has embraced is going to affect her enough to damage her. She cares not for the definition of truth, but merely embraces what is given to her, as that could be either anything at random, or everything in wholeness. And, it is up to a man to give himself, all of himself, so that she comprehends not the truth, but his honesty. It is this way, because she will not be able to differ truth from lie, though only the offering, in whatever a man has made up for himself, before he met her.”
Before me, you sit with a sorry stare at a rim To a glass made of the fibers of sand, Love is a breath in the air for our breath, As sweet as the redness in your hair And as bitter as the very sight of death, As the very sight of what sticks out in your mind.
A face with eyes engraved, And hair that blossoms like thorns to roses. Of those eyes that are either emerald or sapphire, Alike the Earth or the sky, Though, I am unable to tell. Beauty fell upon me like those tides above, And I was on the cross, Dying for my own sins. Your marble face and hair of fire, Gleaming with random tresses, Upon your breast, Folding upon your shoulders.
Love has made us famous, While our hearts make furious rhythms, In the dead of this night. We sit here, to stare at the curves of a glass, Love is revealed at our left hand, As hope is in our right.
We’ll deny ourselves as long as we can, Or death will cast its own ring from shadows, To place itself upon your fine, marble hand.
Face me, beautiful one, You are as lovely as the awoken morn, With hair as red as the liquid that stains your heart, Upon each repeated sip, As red as the rays cast away from the sun, To the meadows of Heaven.
I long, and simply long, For scent of longest hair, and eyes of furthest stare, We are but two forms upon this Earth, With steps so shallow in the mud, And faces so tranquil, As though starving buds, with quivering temples, And blasted bodies, By the wind and sand.
I am in love, and have remained in love, With distortion to my eager form.
And, I see yours, Where pleasure implores, The widest sweeps, Upon currents next to shores.
I desire all, From thy Heavenly form. I know that God, Had made artisans of truest intent, And truest skill, To sculpt what I see, In pure and utter beauty.
A face so full of life, With lashes broken like bent needles, And eyes that swell tears to their surface, Alike the geysers of the Western States. And with two cheeks that beg for kisses, Against each… I do, with all for you, And for the future, and for eternity, That I will nestle my fears into thee, So that you may cradle them, Like crying children.
I simply do not want to die, Before I come upon you, frozen, Before I had said my goodbye, Allow me to go, Before you do go, As I will vanish, With heartbeat so slow.
He steps around his guilt, like iron coats the soles of his feet, and motions to a place before his departed beauty. A step more and he nestles a kiss upon her brow, swearing to himself that he could still hear her words. They were, before she hung herself, perhaps the words of an apology. Words unheard, meant to be heard by Joseph, this man who once loved the purest form of beauty. That was when he allowed himself to launch directly into her, to pull free the chains that seemed to shackle what was once not allowed to move.
For a
woman’s memories are as dear to her, as they are sometimes tragic and sometimes
comedic. Why is a man attracted to her smile? That is because the smile is
there in the realm of deception. He sees what challenges him, being the
uncertainties that have created every mistake attuned with his past. Those
challenges spark him to lead a woman into the future, with only ever the confidence
necessary to see that forwardness, logic, and directness. And, when he looks
over his own shoulder, he should see only one thing: herself, the beauty that
he won’t ever forget.
A deception
challenges a man, because he cannot look forward and backwards at the same
time. A kiss was all Joseph needed, pressed against her brow, to believe in her
mind, her thoughts, her own concealments, and whatever else she had not ever
allowed to open from herself. Does a man desire discovery, as a philosopher, or
does a man discover desire, as a man?
He says to a closed and limp form, “There was never anything else for my past, besides you, since you have died, and I still live. What is my beating heart, if it simply beats without love? What is next in line for my future, if I am someone who sees such a heartbeat, as unnecessary to beat? Each heartbeat is like a step taken, and I am not ever in the present. I am trapped somewhere on a border, on the line itself, and closed in a grand world of fear.”
A kiss to the brow had made him form a tear. Tears are infinite when the eyes have seen something dreaded, because when the eyes have noticed, neither the memories nor the tears, ever cease.
“Truth is mere flesh. Flesh is mere exposure of truth. Undo the knots from clothing to show flesh, and you show everything expected to be concealed, until the proper moment. Everything becomes a shock in such a moment. Everything becomes a loss, and then we behold a world where truth is only ever perceived to be subjective. And, in such a world, we forget what sees truth: the eyes of love.”
“The most comforting sight is the recognition of life, and to see a woman and her beauty will remind one instantly of a mother. The flesh, the soft flesh, the soft breast, that as an infant, one had laid their head against, and wrapped lips around the nipple for the sustenance that also provided comfort. Of beauty and gentleness, there is in it, only sheer recognition to what it represents, the soft glance and the bold eyes, not the hardness dealt from society. For when we cast our eyes upon it, as has been said, we retreat back into innocence. We retreat back into the innocence of the infant, back when all we expected was the softness of the breast, and not the hard beating of the open place called life and independence. There is a dependency in this, to see that which the hardened human relies on for no more than a moment in this solace, and a remembrance to a time when warmth was all one had ever known.”
Hope is a well that springs
eternally the warmth of possibility.
Though, for each individual
possibility, there should be a guide so that further loss is not eventual, and
never inevitable. A leader, that is, should reassure the sorrowful that there
is greater light than such a hopeless one can ever consume, to fill whatever
void has been created.
Beauty has a message:
Beauty asks for one of two things,
“I must be protected,” or “I must be destroyed,” while the former is
fulfillment, while the latter is mere temptation. A desecration of life, does a
woman yearn to fulfill herself in this; and could she step upon a flower to
feel fulfilled, or perhaps destroy the entire universe? Temptation is an
infinite thing, and upon its path, the only thing that is represented is
failure, the death of many things. As for each life, the only failure to
conquer it, is the one that kills it.
We speak of all this, soon when
Joseph enters his beloved’s abode, which to him, was his own previous abode.
And he finds his woman strangled by
braided twine.
He finds what she remains as, the
grace of tears, the notion granted from loss, and her hair! Her hair, such a
latter detail from the previous fewest words, represent now the multitude of
wires that engross the finality of humanity. To become the corpse, would be to
become the machine. The puppet, to which we find it mattering to say should be
controlled.
A lifeless thing, her named was
Barbara, the love of Joseph, too stricken by his abandonment to edge herself
further through life. Wires for hair, alike the machines that are beginning to
conquer the industry of our setting in London.
Fear.
Failure.
Torment.
All words now a part of a bruised puzzle becoming wholesome flesh, as Joseph kneels to the defeat of himself. He does not speak, though rather chooses to rub his face in the floor, below him.
His tears run as the dew that folds itself over leaves in the morning. Like the leaves that bend when the dew droplets make their travel to the pointed end, Joseph, as well, bends his form close to the floor, by the same maneuver. Angelic, it seems, that his torment has become, and more is guilt the persistence to reveal that torment; for that is because he is closer, himself, to dying, and relating himself to the hanged corpse, before him.
He feels a sense of shaping, as though his soul is calling him into the body, before him. The body that has a wind against its skin, so that it has begun to swing. It would not bleed, not even in description of that its blood has ceased to flow, though in that such a woman named Barbara would not show remorse.
She had done this deliberate act for proof, and only this, perhaps in hopes of a coming stranger, or even Joseph, to find her.
Every suicide is an act of proof.
Those who say to each of them determined to end all, the words that go by the ever-more deliberation of doubt, are received with words that say, “If only I had said otherwise.”
Would further love turn this tragedy mended? A failure that Joseph has engrossed himself upon, has allowed to show wound upon wound in himself; and now, he only shows kindness to the floor, because he kisses it. He wets it with his tears that blossom freely from his eyes. They would be like blood, were ever Joseph to hold pain as physical.
A wound of the heart, is always cured by love. It is a fixation, a focus, this emotion, this feeling, that is determined to heal. And yet, love may only heal the heart.
“Where loss encourages the will for survival, a human will each believe that there is more to do, more to gain, and more for the stride. Such is how life functions, in contrast to the forced contentment from death. Or, in love? How does love also evoke the stillness of gratitude?”
She is the waltzer to this afternoon, embedded in a fervency alike the notes played upon the piano; and even he, a man with his fingers so engraved in the keys, as he seems to touch them a lot like the skin of a certain woman. And that woman, is the mover and the waltzer. She is the memorable beauty to strike bleakness out of the depressed gentleman, and cause him to rumble from the new light founded in his morose heart.
What is the maker of the memory? It must be the woman, the “she” spoken as either the “she” or the “her” around the atmosphere of the parlor, about nighttime, when guests are caked in candlelight.
The woman of any newest memory is from that moment, locked in the mind, the branching and stretched blooded veins, and nothing is represented as straight. It is said, or has been said, that a woman enhances herself in Lesbia, before straightness is met through a man. And what else better describes beauty than from Lesbia, the female-to-female, when the heart is cradled by a heart; and that is to speak on the term “possibility” when in the realm of that exact organ.
A heart, the realm of the unlimited, is where this certain woman, whose name is Beatrice, forms a curve with an arm.
So alike the curves from hips, the curves from Beatrice’s mouth, and the whispers spoken in the idleness of this afternoon, given from her cherished emotion. She walks to where the pianist has accompanied himself in his notes, to next accompany himself in her fragrance.
It entices him to an extent, so that in length, he turns his head towards her features, that are, at this moment, fluid and fervent in the many folds from eyelids and pouting lips. Her lashes are brought down to the lower lid, and remain there for but a moment; as then, her cheeks spread across them the crimson current, bleeding an emotion similar to stark resonation, the feeling of association with belonging; as then, her lips are curled to the area beneath her nose, with nostrils that find her scent to be, as well, pleasing.
