“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.
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.
“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.
Think upon, if you dare, dear
reader, to the love that generates itself from a man, so that it runs itself
from East to West. From a beginning to an ending; and that ending, of which we
speak now is the most important aspect, is where loss is current. Loss is the
now, the moment, and the place where a man finds himself nestled with a noose,
and perhaps a singular strand of hair from his beloved, wherever she has fled.
“I am before her,” says a man, of truest intention, and never the slightest hint of doubt, “To give myself everything that I have never believed in to have an existence, in my swollen heart of misery.” For a man, of that truest intention, has nothing left to lose, when he has all to give.
Though, in description of that rock,
that stone, remaining before Joseph, seemingly with eyes of its own, bleeds a
faint shadow onto the gravel beneath it.
Soon, a tear drains from his reddening eye, and marks a new path over his left cheek. It is a desolate tear, one that screams of loneliness. It is a one that finds itself a wind that makes it move to the left of his face. It moves steadily, and then, grabbed by the wind, that tear flies into the wall of some unknown building.
Then after, a colossal hail of tears is swimming their little
paths down into his partially opened mouth. As sadness encases him in bold
ripeness, he finds family with his new choice, and that choice is a simple one:
to round himself, and begin to walk in the opposite direction, towards the
woman who he abandoned.
“I had loved a woman,” says this man named Joshua, his feet carrying his body towards a certain uncertainty. He had indeed loved, bared himself wonderfully to a child of his own worship. He had been God upon a time, and gave birth to his pride; the flesh of his own flesh, that is, and made himself smile. Has one ever envisioned God to ever smile?
God is not a thing of power, were ever power to be attained as is, because power has no creation of itself without a viewing of a creation’s suffering; and as the Atheist would adore their emotion of denial, for whatever compiled list of emotions creates denial, sees God as the one to ignore suffering. A compelling sight of ignorance is drawn into the Atheist’s own mind, to say that God ignores suffering. A child, much alike to Joshua’s once-beloved he beheld for himself, is never a child for long. Much alike how Joshua abandoned his beloved, God abandons Mankind for their independence. The pitiful anger an Atheist throws to the sky finds itself nowhere fast, only swimming in the deepest darkness of a limitless universe; and that anger is only a depiction of a proof, that to be angered at God for his supposed refusal to cleanse suffering, proves the angered one to be eternally the child. Therefore, in comprehension of this, God becomes only ever-so powerful, in sight of suffering, in hopes of its thwarting of God’s own throne, in expectation of perhaps a certain someone to die and then ascend.
Joshua had abandoned a woman to her independence, and many movements have encouraged this, for a woman to abandon love, and abandon unity with a man; though, has God ever held the hands of a wife?
What has God built to destroy besides everything he sees with eyes that so many will believe to disbelieve does not exist, as such eyes are seemingly never opened? The sun, and what of the sun, besides warmth, and the warmth we find to open our own eyes after a night’s period of sleep?
Oh, love; such an emotion that awakens; as such occurs for a woman when she is kissed. Beautiful beauty. Beautiful recognition. Flesh rises when it is kissed, and denial only ever surfaces when depression strikes a man down to kiss the soil.
A man is in love with death, not in the act of stooping to kiss, though in the act of loss; to be a pauper is when a man would weep. And Joshua has lost, though of his own accord. A society of Democracy is now London’s breath upon the cold skin of this melancholy town. It is a society of eternal choice, of the uncertainty that comes from never an answer to show itself.
Beauty rapidly falls apart when it is not sustained by the support of love.
A man is in love with a woman when he desires to root her. In place, her desire for exploration is cast aside, and every dance she yearns for becomes wrapped in silence; a dance in silence, that is, and her place becomes the roots for a man’s belonging for her. A man is not in love with a woman when he desires to see her set free. In place of that rooting, she is married with Satan, or deception, and she makes her mark never in sight of God, but of countless opportunity.
For a woman is more-so the opportunist than ever a man was; and a modern realm for a world, especially for Joshua’s hometown of London that has embraced Democracy, has only sought to utilize the essence of the opportunist, so that work is rapid.
A thirst, a burning, a quenching; for the fires of love cannot be quenched, though the first of lust burn out on their own. What has a woman, for any world, in any society, desire for herself? Is it eternity in the arms of a truthful someone, or is it the many placed beams of support, that raises tall a fragile skyscraper, to indicate revolution and endless change?
How long will Joshua continue to travel?
To walk, upon the toes that were once there to see their cleansing in the running waters of a bathtub. And now, to merely stumble over the airy nature of his own depression; and such depression that is a past thrown forward.
He raises his head, during this moment, to espy the walkway before him. A marvelous sight of complete loneliness seems to be now his future.
For what has a man to do with freedom? It is a nothingness to him.
A man becomes the slave, while a woman becomes the asset, for a world that speaks of politicians as saviors.
Politicians have been the leaders of corruption, and nothing more. Love is the only weapon to cleanse; and from this factual sliver of evidence to what has been toyed with, strangled and buried, where are the books with the opening pages to remind all of it?
With what Joshua, as well, espies before him, is a river. In the metaphorical sense, it is another way to depict that road of loneliness, previously mentioned. Though, it is also a way to describe a place of uncertainty.
Of a man and his uncertainty: it is the sight of a globe rotating on the spine of disorder.
Love a man, and he will find himself to make a decision; and to take that decision will reflect upon him as himself never dwelling in eternity to make a decision; and this means, that should a man ever take a moment to decide, he will be forever in love. Though, should he ever take an eternity to decide, then he will be forever in Hell.
Offer freedom through love, to the man, and nothing more. Offer freedom to a woman, and she roams, and nothing more; or a woman will find herself crawling in filth, and still believe herself to hold power.
“I am death,” says a woman, whose power enables her to be that opportunist, repeatedly mentioned, now. “I am love,” says a woman, whose power enables her to cleanse the blood from the responsible man.
Joshua quits his walking, finally.
He has found something that strikes his interest to heart.
There is a face that I occasionally come to kiss, even in the dark of night. When torment has been my medicine, from a bottle that I drink to sink pain beneath my chest, I think only of her.
I think only of a woman, who has blackest hair, and darkest eyes.
I think of my failings, my undoings, or any small inaction that I form into the guilt of a man committing murder. I am dramatic by my heart, and fallen by my mind. My mind thinks, and it ponders while it wanders, because guilt has been my necessity. I love with a powerful love. I crave the burn, the sensation that drives me to thrill.
She has embodied that.
The burn, that is, and her form is a chaotic form, of bruised flesh that I have been aiming to make wholeness; for I would offer pleasure, and more-so the love. Her face is what I have found, to be desirous for my many kisses. I have found all of love in her, in its greatest definition conceived by me. Oh, love! It is an emotion, alike a fire, a conflagration, to burn my sins so that it is all I witness.
She is the beauty, and the task to which I devote my time. She is the woman of sentiment, and no photographs would I burn.
For the thrill of love, I commit myself to madness, to sadness, and to gladness; and I adore each sensation, clung upon them like a man I am, with claws, like upon skin that would not tear.
I see her eyes swimming in tears. I am devoted and loyal. I do not worship, but remain at a distance to see the ocean that show whatever loneliness is left to purge. And I cross them, and throw the water aside.
I see tears, and I swipe them away. I see the moon folding its pallid hues over herself, and I collapse the moon. I see the sun offering a greater love than myself, and I destroy the sun. I want no sadness for herself, though for me, for I will grow terrible to thwart away the disease called “distraction”. No sadness, and no misery, for herself.
A woman’s heart is to me, the cherished stone. I walk from where I sat, to her face, and bury only myself in her tears. They come out from dark eyes as sweet to taste, for she is happy!
Happiness! So alien was the word, whenever I’d writhe in a torment back in my home. I’d spent the summer nights, in the heat, while a heart beat for the torment of an addiction. A substance, or so it was named, and I blew kisses in the direction of that pain, because I knew it was enhanced by love.
She bares her beauty resplendently. This woman of mine bares herself with a heart held outward, and I make myself famous in her touch. I feel the entire world look upon us, with so much envy. They can never know love. No; not them; certainly not the world I know to be dipped in selfishness and a desire for the self.
Our hands embrace; indeed, we have embraced. We have kissed, and we have embraced. We will love; yes, we will love. We will kiss, again, and we will find the moon to be radiant and the sun to be hot.
Above her brow is a strand of hair that I blow away from sight. I see an eyebrow that I, as well, offer a kiss. And I kiss it, and kiss it evenly in distance from her twinkling eye. So much love is in my heart, and my pain has been extinguished from its dancing and ephemeral flame. It was my life, that pain, and I have waved it a farewell.
My beauty, let us dance under stars and under the awing faces. We are the world made perfect. We are the moment made without distance. We are the ones for the other. We are beloved, and musical, and enchanted.
Beneath
the fire of the sun and in the warmth of their skin, two lovers unite in the
holler and jeer of a morning’s session of passion. There is, imagined in this
scene, a pair that dances on their own toes above the fruit that releases the
nectar that is the sin of lust. One speaks of beauty, the other speaks of
despair. Yet, the comfort that surrounds the aura to the dream is the enemy to
love. One dream and one blaze cover a pair so embedded in simplicity.
Bastian
acts as the man with an entire field below him in its radiance from the
overhead sunlight, while she gleams with as much luster as the sun, to give
Bastian the radiance that all know in holiness. Bastian is God to an angel
covered in her own cotton garments.
He
is as merciful as the holiest of saints, though tears into her the punishment
that fits the description of any atrocious fiend. His face is shown with the
emanations of regret. More than once, she questions why he is weeping, but not
once does he offer an answer. He gleams in the aroma of love-making; it is
softness to the angel’s defeat. A few drops from his face mingle in with the
drops of his body, but his face is soaked in sadness. His temples are soaked in
passion. His mind is drowned in sorrow.
In
God’s realm, he has become the doer of good to an angel that envelops herself
in simplicity. Her shoulders show loveliness through their roundness and their
connection to a splendid stem of a neck! Her face is captured by the kisses
given to her from the man above, and what a face it is! Bastian and his lips
trace the skin of her breast, draining its plumpness. He allows himself to
linger on her scent.
The
scent of a beast lures; that is the Hunter which Bastian has become. It takes
God and a Hunter to create a child in the womb of an angel. He takes in her
softness in every inescapable delight. Every one of her tremors results in the
creation of an empire devoted to wings and gold.
Oh, love; without the work required, would make it mere dust.
Beauty is the flesh, the molded clay, and the truth that is
continually spun into a different shape. Whoever is the political leader of the
day, becomes society’s sculptor, and the sculptor of every piece of flesh.
A neck must turn a head upwards.
A face must see a God, when looking upwards in that direction
towards a light.
Oh, science; it holds fields, and only fields, of such named studies,
where the researchers will only face their eyes upon the ground. When one peers
ahead, one sees the future. When one peers at their feet, they do feel
miserable by seeing the past. History is not merely recorded, but also dug up,
explored and discovered.
Love has two hands, and they both tremble in the fear and worries
of a past.
A man now explores a woman, in what we see before us. A man of ragged
appearance, with death on the edges to his fingertips; he explores with a
shovel; no, not a shovel, but a dagger that is shaped smallest it could ever be,
in possibility. No one had shaped its smallness but the frail mind of this
withered man. He is a rapist. His mind is terrible, while his instincts are
ever-so worse the cause for destruction. Death is his music; and where he makes
marks, they are not stayed with the feet upon a woman’s ground.
He moves as the boat that rocks atop the waves.
He runs his face over her fearful eyes and runs his mouth over her
quivering lips.
He moves his hands at her hips, to turn such round curves into
jagged edges, so they no longer appear as the Earth with its same curvature.
Love; and why do we speak of love, through such a scene?
It is due to one detail.
Fragments.
A woman raped, is the woman removed of her modesty, of her warmth,
and one can guess she’d feel the same “loss” as when she is removed of love. A
lover, that is, to be removed from her life, makes the woman unprotected.
And what had been her protector, this woman named Lucia who now
lays on her back in some dusty back-alley, besides what is now that same word?
Fragments. Torn flesh, is the ragged flesh, is the bleeding wound, the same
wound from everything lost. Of flesh, of virginity, of any mark that touches something
made to be warm, from protection. Clothing would protect from the cold. An
embrace would protect from the coldness of loneliness.
She has encumbered her mind with the sadness of regret. What of her memory? It is drowned in a scathing of her liquid mind; a woman of vanity that conflicts with a desire for a future. Her independence is doomed to meet the past; what of her memory? The memory she possesses, Valarie, as is her name, sees shadows.
Shadows that creep and shadows that are so much the silhouette. She desires to see the future, away from a husband, though is seeing the past. She pulls humanity backwards. Disparity is her surname. Valerie Disparity. Beautiful woman, is she, and a woman of the north. She has accumulated nothing upon the south. Her loin is still but matted with the flesh of the hymen. Domination has not been upon her. It is this way, while seduction still drools from herself.
Many men turn their eyes, distracted by something so natural for a man to be a distraction. Away from the sufferings of poverty, a man throws his glance in Valerie’s direction. He will grope, as the pauper, to reach for an apple or a peach, because morality is not of him.
Valerie’s face, so brimming with red, welled up upon cheeks that run the red to her collarbones. The red ceases upon that spot, and we notice her lips, as well with crimson from an applied cosmetic. Her face, and then her eyes are too, noticed, with blue irises, creating a scenery of one sky above and two places to look. Withdraw from it, and you will lean towards Hell, towards the poverty where a life crawls on knees and only the knees.
Her future, dreamed to be a paradise of an envisioned eternity of escapism. There is nothing that Valerie delights more in, besides the urge to be away. From what, does one ask? What to escape from, and to what future of what paradise of escapism? A future so uncertain is there for her, and seemingly throws light upon her face, and such hued cheeks turn gray as dust. She feels fear.
A future full of her independence, and yet, the dumbest of men could comprehend that a woman’s focus is her past, her memories; and all of her mind entwined as a reminder to what was good. What was once good, that is, is her prime focus. The first kiss. The first dance. The first romance. And then, the first bedding, with a man of her choosing.
The dumb man cannot ever see the past of a woman, unless he ask for its reminiscent words departed from her parted mouth.
The reminder in what a woman says is her correction to a past, is the past as tainted, and she throws the past forward; and in doing this, the past is recreated in men. A man’s mistakes is recreated; and of curiosity directed solely as a woman’s instinct, there is life continually either preserved or destroyed. What has it for a woman to destroy life, to act as men, to be as brutal and stupid, as men? Carefulness would be of a woman’s regime, were curiosity not to be among her instincts.
Curiosity creates envy. Envy creates lust. Lust creates pride, even should an accomplishment not be made. Pride soon becomes as loose as happiness, as contentment, until no accomplishment is made; and then, among bloodied, brutal people that we are, we find comfort only in blood, in conflict, in life.
Oh, Valerie; with crimson upon shades of crimson. There is lightness in your breath, and speechlessness in your gaze. There is quality in your bosom, and life in your stillness when one marvels upon you even dancing. Love, we will do; though, the only gift we will have is humble gratitude.
