Prose
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Slowness to sobriety. Fill me up with the porcelain from your eyes, with the sentences that perspire upon the lids. Keep me afloat in your drunken state, in the arms that swim, while nails begin to dig. You let fall your fingers to pierce the wood of a coffin, while I am settled in the…
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He has fed on her stare. Of her smile, too, blossoming from the face, pallid in its ill-like discoloration. Of stare and smile, both. He stays living among wine for his sadness, granting him warmth of vermillion liquid droplets, then to her palms outstretched for his grasp. Of stare and smile that looms, from beneath…
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He stands, to then sit. To sit, then stand, again. Restlessness has him writing a letter both upon desk and heart. A signature bends itself, over the letter, to the submissiveness of holding on. Streaks for loving smiles. Futures that can think on their own, though collapse in the rush. Of blood that reeks of…
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Her heart, long and venomous was ever the sadness that chimed upon the strings. Could I? To stoop my head low to gift a kiss to her notes, would I then fade? As she, being the one who wishes to be vapor, I’d gather it in my lungs at this final leap. Pioneered for the…
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He believed more in betrayal, than that of love. Watched, as the stars kissed his cheeks. Waited, as the haze melted him into a portrayal of surrender. Laughed, as the clouds mocked him among their height. He kept something. A locket. Of a face with two roses for cheeks, blush for the sake of the…
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“Repetition is a cruel splash of the hardest hail upon our faces. Of life, where moments matter more than dreams. Of love, where sadness speaks more than the moments that indeed fade. For life, a person will always gain. For love, a person will always lose.” – Peter A.W. Wyatt
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Short Prose & An Example of a Blogger’s Life – 200 Words – “For your Love” – Romanticism – 2/19/2021
For what will transpire, I will breathe a thousand more words. Though, the one that is saved, is straight from the heart. While you were true, I merely lied half of the time to reach you. While you were real, only half of my heart stuck to this. Though, I could cry upon all the…
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Everything. It depends on the eyes. What do you see, when you look at myself? What do the Autumn leaves comprehend of Autumn? What do the fallen understand of the beauty in that arrangement of colors? Fire is what leaves a trail of decay. Scattered debris, a teeming season of fossils, as you can indeed…
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A: Oh, beloved. Was I always your only mistake? B: As just the very one who abandoned me, the only regret who has come to be both truest and most false. A: You regret so much, of so much abandonment, though I led you through your darkest trials. B: You led me, to then bring…
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It is to him that this pain, in deepest relation to his wife, can be a thing that reminds him of the moment. As love cradles, so does the ocean become carried with a few droplets that disperse from this man’s eyes, adding more to the flood. For nothing else darkens more of a wave,…
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“Pictures to be taken of a few moments before the final gust pushed itself from her lungs, made as mementos for my eternal keeping. If not to burn of grief, then to always look upon them, even to my own mind, for sight upon memorial. Love sings, with notes of no words added, being of…
Modern Romanticism 