Philosophy – “Beauty Exists to be Fragile, to Love’s Non-Existence” – 7/27/2020

“All love is not delicate, ever on its own. On its own, it is waiting to create. To imagine the universe as infinite, is to believe in love the same. All beauty is delicate to its creator. All beauty is shaped by hands so unseen, while through our submission, we allow them to mold us.”

– Modern Romanticism

Each human is beautiful, delicate to the control of love. The non-existence of love, is believed in, to be existent by the existence of beauty. For this means that each thing that can be broken, is beautiful. Each thing that can be destroyed, is protected by love.

Each beautiful thing upon this world has form, has shape, and can be broken. The mind cannot truly be broken, so long as love is wanted. By the mind, love is wanted, for the repair of it. For that will occur in an instant. Whatever torment the mind suffers will be immediately relieved through love. It is the mind that is indirectly in torment, while the body is directly in its suffering. As in, the body represents the honesty of a person, while the mind represents the dishonesty or mystery of a person. As scientists have said, the mind is the last to go, upon the body’s death. It is due to that the mind is transferring its memories to the next world, where the soul goes.

Attempt to resurrect the form, and it will be literally reborn, without recollection of who it was during its first life. No human can be “resurrected” without being “reset” the same way a machine is. It is as Christ, who upon his own resurrection, knew he must be called to Heaven. It is because that where he belonged, knowing his “Holy Spirit” was with his Father. It must be the case that all dead humans, among each memory to their mind, exists in “Heaven”. The realm where the dead go, or where the memories go, and perhaps relived.

All love upon this world to everything beautiful, is a non-existence before it becomes an existence. Though, only because love was believed in, that this occurs, can beauty ever be protected by it.

Each thing of a shape, of a form, can be broken. Therefore, it can be protected by something infinitely more supreme in wisdom, and in guidance, so that it does not break. For it is that the mind to a fragile form, can do unwise maneuvers and decisions, so that the body breaks. If the body breaks, then the mind was merely without wisdom. Without wisdom, a person acts in the stupid manner to let their body become broken. For how does a person live on, without knowing the love from another? No person upon this world understands love, without receiving it.

Romance Novel – Chapter Excerpt – Chapter VI – “To not Sink a Friend” – 6/19/2020

He speaks directly to her ear, “You are still so small, my child.”

She withdraws to peer upwards to his gaze, with quivering lips and weary stare, to then commit a moment in a burning. She kisses him. Upon the lips, smooth with each waxen mouth that fires up a fever to the downing daytime. It leaves her mark upon his own, with red upon his porcelain.

Her passion wields fire, has carried a torch through to him, ignited the smallest areas without a flame. Love bounces through to him, playing chords on whatever harp can be envisioned for his heartstrings.

“I am not the enemy of yours,” says Lisa, gravitating her tone through a certain sweetness. “I love you, with all of my yearning heart,” she adds, without notice so much to Joel, both through her tears and the shades of the night. She says, next, “Why do you block so much of me?” in an ever sweeter tone, laughing next to the words, to then add, “I was aiming to go around you, until I saw you. Then, I stopped, and placed myself in an awe I could not escape from.”

“You are still so beautiful, Lisa,” says Joel, wandering between his own words, like the confusion in them, meagerly transparent. “My apartment is near. Will we enter?”

Her cheeks flush with the red crimson of one new morning sun, at the sound of those words. To wrap her in arms as wide as wings, from the eagle as Joel, determined of eyes to have a glimpse of possession. He can count droplets of sweat upon her brows. A scent raises itself to him, enticing him by the need to devour.

What love is, by the torch of trust, raised high as the flag with spread-about coloring. What wields Spain, by Spanish passion? Fire is simple, and to the two that are presented here, their lives have been transfigured for this endearing moment. For this moment, among all moments that will climb over to the next, a future can wait. They trust, for the moment, because the many more in the future, are patient when the moments wish to then move onward. Trust is the flame for the present, revealing the future by the light such a torch can emit.

Her breath comes through from ruby lips that have been smeared, in the rouge once-applied. Her eyes have glanced over to the side of them, while remaining in his grasp, her form leaning into him.

Love has a flavor. Blissful, while radiant, in all emotions and complexions, exposed for a future’s sake. To Joel, a future is as uncertain as his own love, his own heart, his own purpose. He has expressed this, as we know from him, as his words resonated with the stubborn, thumping heart inside his chest. Beyond the flesh, beyond the walls of him, a fear resides, blanketing the needed fervency for heartfelt devotion.

“Chapter Two – Placement” – From “An Unfinished Book” – 5/27/2020

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 carpet beneath his feet. It is worth noting that a smile has etched itself into his features, for but a moment, before departing into the musky air of this bedroom.

That was a smile holding words of its own, one that said, “I am nearing a time to talk. To talk to a one I trust.”

Upon his knees, down to mingle with the curse that is his pain, down to sing his words out from his throat, he hurls himself from silence into a time to speak. Even if to God, the answer-less being, it is a time for Anton to express deep woes and heartache.

Answer-less, though not without impracticality by those answers we are not used to. That is, every emotion that branched from the seed of love, are things without answer. We expect answers from God, though to what end are we able to realize that some things cannot be answered, in the way we want them to?

Anton comprehends, down upon his knees, nothing of God.

To Him, it is a flurry of voices that spew from Anton’s lips, towards a kingdom he’s never seen, though is hopeful does exist.

Anton speaks syllables only deserving trust by something of a being without form. God, without form, would not crave, nor use prayers for knowledge. For is not a human’s craving to know, simply craving? It is, because we can hoard knowledge as easily as we hoard the currency a pauper is starved of. A human may offer bread, the practical means of a pauper’s answer to his or her hunger, though in what shape, to what form, to what design, does God offer bread to the loner without love?

To what Anton says, streaming through from his lips in the emotions of a river, coming from his eyes in the form of a river, leaking from his mind in the memories that travel like rivers, “I am here to loathe what I am.”

They are words expressed, on evidence, from deep grief. They came through as but a whisper, telling some kind of tale that could resonate with a number of people.

Love is all-powerful, though it is fear that is all-consuming.

Why do we speak so much on love, despite knowing little of Anton? Would it be because of the formless being he speaks to, upon his knees, with hands clasped before his eyes, representing love? Love comes in no form, for we do not love the form, though do respect the form. We love the face, the recognition of what we comprehend, and does not confuse us. For would a mother be confused at the sight of her child? It is never the case.

Love wraps itself around the hungry loner’s shoulders, though not to feed their bellies. To imagine the hospice, full of patients ill with disease, what would be their greatest suffering?

Is loneliness not the greatest suffering of all men and women? We want what we want, though sometimes deign ourselves to want what we find impossible to have. Though, to stare in the eyes of the one we say helps us, would it be done without love?

Anton speaks again, “I am guilty of only one thing: that I wasn’t there when she slept.”

Not there when she slept? Still too vague, for then he says, “I was near to beauty when it slept, though when I came closer, she turned to mist. God, to what realm am I supposed to meet something that vanished? My love breathed her last into the air, for her to then welcome herself through the open window, and never once more, speak. Silence is what encompassed me, on that day. Now, silence is all I adopt, all I realize to be something for me, never again to respond to the wind’s call, nor the ocean’s lapping.”

He ends with, “If I can see something that I have missed, then may I be blind too.”

All minds begin with a light, until shadows are cast from that light. All beginnings are formed within a halo, the cupid, like Christ shouted to being the Alpha, though was also directing towards the Omega. Is it that we are speechless to what we may follow to the end, where we are blind while reaching the final moment? Anton realizes his own light is still the current, for he has begun at square one, after his experience in loss.

For he says, “She, the one to give me a light upon my trail, had nothing to do with the ending of my heart on its long road. Yet, I feel guilt, as I feel at fault for my negligence. My negligence, to do with how I did not speak much to her. My guilt is more to do with how I could not speak directly to her dying form, washed as it was in the white of a phantom. For that is what she became, as I know it to be.”

A life, began at a light. A love, ended at the final stop for a road, lacking light. No light at the end of the tunnel, nor at the end of their journey. Anton is merely the one to have waved a farewell to a departed beloved, before beginning a new light, with his mouth wrapped in silence.

Love is the only certainty the imperfect human cherishes, leaving to themselves the fear that decides for them the way to protect what may be lost. We are, when in love, heroic. We are splendid heroes, deserving though only what deemed worth protecting.

Anton, gilded in gold, silver in his tears, and bronze for his flesh, is a man whose heroism escaped him, along with the object to protect.

A beloved, bent low to for an oncoming vow, to keep on protecting, until the death of that love, by the death of one stopped heart. Love leaves all opened gaps to be closed, by the arms of the beloved coming to close them.

What wounds does Anton now suffer, in how no one, besides him, besides perhaps the vision of God, can come to offer aid? No new love is what Anton currently wants. His pain, written over his face in smears, is not to be healed in an instant. For the cracked heart to the full heart, will be eternally dependent on that which is lacking.

He says, “Oh, God. I am a man without much sin, though with many regrets. I regret I would not listen to her, for my ears were not good enough, so much as they were indeed able. My love bleeds for me somewhere out there, within your kingdom, as I am here, bleeding out to her.”

He ends with saying, “I am still too much the one who wallows in his own grief, forever disarranged among the spilled flowers from their vases. That is because I am deeply embedded in seeded memories, that won’t sprout unless I nurture them with my tears. Oh, God. Forgive me for whatever you can, in whatever you in your formless self have grasped of my words.”

He moves, from the praying chair, to a bench that rises from the floor about a foot and a half, and has been placed before a mahogany wall.

It is to be said, now, that Anton Action is a dweller in a city of Germany. Berlin, as it is, as he has remained there his entire feeble existence.

Anton has moved, as we have said, from his realm in prayer, from his speech in prayer, to be rested atop a bench that we have said is apart from a mahogany wall. Though, it is apart from his own bed, where sheets are nestled, and a quilt is atop those sheets in somewhat disarrangement. It could be assumed that this, too, is a semblance of what Anton remembers of a loss. Of a beloved, to whom he desires to be remembered in every direction. While he has lost sight of her, he has not lost the fondness of her remembrance.

Who was this woman? Pray tell, she certainly must have held the utmost importance to Anton, for we can see of his eyes, during this moment, that tears have been draining. Draining, and falling over his cheeks, to his mouth, to his chin, for he has not deigned himself to swipe them away.

Poem – “Among Your Death” – Romance – 10/26/2019

I will live,
Though, how can I breathe?

How can I start a fire,
A flame
In this heart of mine,
Without the glance that brought me life?

How can I state any moment of happiness,
In the most genuine of words,
Without what is needed,
To keep me down?

What finger will be placed
Upon my blistered lips?

What pair of eyes will know
The cries emitted from this sentenced heart?

I will live,
And no longer know love.
And, how can I breathe,
Without the comfort of comfort
To truly lay me down?

Poem – “I Picture Thee, Open and Empty” – Romance – 10/20/2019

I picture thee, open and empty,
With palms facing your knees,
And eyes upon the surest sign,
Of life with broken wings.

Kisses are gentle when they are spoken
As well as simply given.

Kisses are harsh when they bite,
And retract with a mouthful of flesh.

I am sure to love you,
As much as you’ll allow the love
To flood your entire heart.

You are beautiful, dear one, among the embers that encase
The melodies of your heart.
You have been famous, have you not,
Beneath the moon that showers silver tears
Upon your rosy lips?

I am sure to love you!
Beautiful woman, of the Northern sights,
Of beautiful eyes, with Northern lights.

And I will love you,
So your palms will face the open sky,
Not an empty grave.

Poem – “Love Has Breached a Corner in our Wilderness” – Romance – 10/16/2019

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.

Flash Story – “Too Indebted to Move” – Romantic Literature – 10/14/2019

“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.”

“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.

Poem – “The Redhead with the Glass of Red” – Romance – 10/14/2019

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.

The Tena Poems – Truest Love – “I Long, and simply Long” – Romance – 10/11/2019

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.

Novel – Chapter IV – “Signs of a Man in Love” – Romance – 9/17/2019

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.




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.

Flash Story – “A Book Beside a Pillow” – Romance – 9/13/2019

“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.

Poem – “To Control Our Forever” – Romantic

I have in my palm,
The clay of your illuminated shell.
Your beauty that remains stilled,
Among the ebony shores,
Clears the skies,
In your nudity.
I am in love with only the failure,
That has become my eternal addiction.
Oh, when love is my eternity.
When love is my mercy.

I loathe the external benefit,
The mute loathing that shows
A frail breathing, lifted by toil.
I am staled by these bared hands,
That dig the soil
That surrounds your fertile form.
A beauty of flesh and soon to be
The bones beneath the extremities.
I’ve come to love the death beneath thee,
And not the truth to which makes you whole.

Fit for this merciful love and God’s own given ground.
His given ground of sanctity,
And his desires that are nothing
When compared to mine own.