Prose
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Colors will drain from the open wound. Upon the carpet, upon the spaces where sunlight brought in from open windows is shown warmest, as these marks are left without memory for why or when they were applied. They just were, because colors can be left behind. Color-blinded, some people are, though not ever blinded of…
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He paces, in support of himself. His footsteps crumble remnants of a previous Autumn, for now the season is Spring. Something keeps his forward direction, though his heart requires a quilt, even as a hand to keep it company. This elder, this man, follows the sidewalk gleams, like it were a pathway of snow for…
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Still-life. A stilled life. He weeps to form a garden made from her debris. He weeps, and he cannot even leave. He weeps the funeral back into togetherness, to the final time in being the blank witness to a sunshine that distanced itself so well. It was the final time to view the light, even…
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Curtains, as everyone’s enemy. Concealment, of a human side, made as blessed. Safety was our concern, as all to everyone’s fear. Though, love would not lose. Love would not depart. Not ever, safely. Not at all, without the storm. We are weary. In each other’s arms, we are heavy. I’ve granted you the yearning to…
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Soft, simple words edged on the tongue that speaks nothing audible, between the voice that coughs on grief. A symptom. And, only a symptom. Of a stain noticeable to the mind, yet invisible to the heart. To what can ridicule, for its current place. Then, what will wish for its place among the silence of…
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“Running. A trek that will take miles to him, though is a mere rounding of a corner to sight of horror. “Will she? Will she be there? Here? Somewhere?” are the words he releases, torn off as shreds of paper at the corners of his mouth. Written in some place of his heart as the…
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I “Helpless Disposal” Why have the clouds come together? Is the heart ever the same? He steps. He buries a foot in the soft earth, pushing himself against the gusts that tear into his middle-aged form. “I have to return home before the earth begins to tremble at the first sign of thunder.” Yet, the…
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Blanket me. Warm me. Though, leave me. Keep me as you can see me. Though, leave me, as I am open. Hold me in the heart of your yearnings. There is wine sprinkled around, enough to be shed like blood. Do I look wounded, enough? Upon the surface, warmth is more the spots. The clouds…
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Echo. Echo out, and then, remain sad. We say to you, a little fog cannot blind those eyes. Hold your piercing scream to the wind, and then let us breathe of you. Allow ourselves. And then, we will dance to your tune. We will dream of what will sometimes never reach. Then, we will keep…
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She sweeps. She keeps. Her music, unfolded of ivory pages in her heart. Sheets written with notes, both curled and straight. Love is of a porcelain structure. Though, she burns the pages in her conceit. She burns the paper for what she leaves. A heart, left behind, finding no need, no cure to her endless…
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Here I am. Pick me up. Then, release me. Hold me, again, in arms, as you would to birth the sunrise. Of life given to life, I wish to be renewed. I wish to be mourned, as this tale towards my end shall leave certain pages marked. Of dots upon what I see to be…
Modern Romanticism 