Fragile,
Mournful
Of the snow that takes shape
Of a man’s crumpled hand,
With edges
That carry him down.
Weakened,
Overtaken
Of the breaking mind,
Wallowing in sustenance
Too heavy to hold,
Though he walks.
Bleeding
Sunrise, into the wastes
Of burned fields,
Sickened moors,
Orchards that loose more apples
Than ever he did of sin.
Will water
Quenched the starved lips,
Reminiscent of a kiss
Never allowed?
Will the moon
Show its true face
On the time
When scenery is sent off?
“People’s lives don’t end when they die. It ends when they lose their faith. Will it be death while still holding strong to faith, or a long life gained by renouncing it?”
– Hanzo of the Salamander (Naruto)
“Why else would the Cat Lady amuse herself with a storm of cats? Why else, if not to cover up her loneliness with cats? Obsession is that which one cannot move past from, for depression digs one into a hole, into the ground where one no longer walks, though is a particle of the past. The earth, meant to be walked upon, meant as a place to ‘move forward’ in one’s life. Though, if obsession is the depressed person’s motive, it is their fear to the future that keeps them concealed, just as a corpse is, covered by dirt.”
– Modern Romanticism
Why ever do rightness unto another, when distrust is gathered upon you, blanketed by those I once did love? It is you I love, yet it is they I am forced to resent. It is you I am forced to say is the most important essence. That, to go back to a former time, would mean my death. It is you who cannot let me go, when hands are wet from the cold waters of a winter ocean. With ease, hands can indeed slip free the burden of all guilt.
Why weigh us down, under love? It has always been you who I have loved. It has always been you, I can hardly fathom. It has always been you, to the day that I die, that you might die with me. It has always been you that when you disappear, will be when I cast my final breath.
My love, from trumpet call to scraping the strings of violins, I can feel the stir of something warm. Yet, for their sake, I bury it. For their sake, of the ones I once did love, I bury my love for you. And, only when I hold you, can I know what I will raise. And, only when I weep upon your name, can I know what has been built.
She holds a smile in her hands, while filming the ocean’s sounds with her heart. Sounds that return to her, upon when the waters lick the shoreline. Sounds that matter only to a world that never responded quick enough, upon when sickness took her beloved. A world that only gave a whisper from a dying heart, from breathing lungs, as his eyes closed to one last fallen tear.
She holds her heart in her chest, bare with wickedness to each sagging breast. Roses are collected at her feet, missing their stems, while leaving the red to flood a clashing wave of vermillion to the drifting sea. Her mouth comes open, to let loose not merely a syllable, though a breath to it, as well. A gust, and half a name that was matched, rips from her tongue, and lays flat upon her lips. The ocean does not take it.
She drifts. Her eyes wander, as the ocean does, to the skyline, in view of a rising sun. In darkness, she cascades. In this darkness, tears run to form puddles beneath her eyes.
Love lost, as she finds her breath in the ocean. She hears her yearning in the waves. She hears him, like the whisper from a dying heart and lungs, battering the chapter closed. She hears a love that never gave another day.
Yet, the sun rises, makes a glimpse of light, a slight feeling of warmth, to her face. How can another day matter, to this stem, this bush, whose roses have fallen? How can it matter, when she bleeds her colors to the blue?
Her arms, so bare, hold shoulders that tremble.
Her face swims in her torment. An apocalypse of grief, where hearts turn black, as oceans turn grey. How many eyes turn her way? How many embraces can she hold? How much sickness can allot itself? How much more? How many places can she open herself, to be shut inside as a mouse to its temptation?
Of blood, so warm, yet it drains from her, to the cold ocean. The sea, where fires are lit on the horizon, though bring no relief. The glaciers of her grief stand like lighthouses, guiding her sighs along to be passed. Out her throat, and then, on towards the madness of another thousand nights to weep herself to sleep.
For she had buried it all, deep in her heart. She had lost it all, deep in the soil. Six feet that averages the height of a man, growing under the earth. The roots of his memories scatter and spread like trails of ebony. Of darkness that leaves its moments for this woman to remember. And, is it a curse?
Gently, she leans her head back to view the sky. Its pallidity wraps her. Its overcast appearance takes her. For she wishes to be an angel that knows no distance.
“How many tears could a man have concealed upon a time when he was hungry, when to soon realize upon his loss that he was only thirsty?
A man lives, to drink in what he never felt.”
– Modern Romanticism
Breaking between syllables, this painter is lost in his wreckage. A void for discovery’s sake, to see a face that looks back to his pain, to the absence. As this memory unites with himself, a hollowness begins to become so apparent in its torture. Just a single pang of loneliness, doubt, and uncertainty to keep him shivering. Just a face that is here to ignite in his mind, the spoiled times of his youth, beside her. A familiarity so transparent that it designs itself even without a paint brush, to be glorified in hasted waste. A pile of limbs. A contorted soul. A spark of grief in his heart that never forgets, when he cannot ever turn his head around to face the flesh of her.
Just an epitome. An epitome to this grief, that could be kept in a book. Just a hollowness. A hollowness that never lasts, though always keeps itself locked inside of himself. A pain, and it is a one that doesn’t ever die, though slowly makes him feel as though he is dying.
Love never runs far from us. We always hold, in our heart of hearts, the precious, alluring memories that never seem to give up their pull. Pressed, we are not, by those memories, as we always return to them with shimmering eyes. Just a face we want to see, from our mind of minds, that is described to be the definition of beauty. Just a face. And, a one that doesn’t ever fade, unlike the form we have buried.
We have, of love, just the eagerness to look. To stare upon what we have captured, in our heart of hearts, to our mind of minds. Just a speck of bewilderment causes a pain in our eyes, to weep just enough to press ourselves down. We are pressured by grief. Though, as we said, memories pull, like magnets to attract, rather than repel.
Grief is never so much a thing to conquer, in as much it is merely felt, like a leaf that had strayed from its branch. It has nestled itself into our shoulder, and stays there, not vowed for escape.
All tears carry weight, simple weight. All memories carry not weight, though force. We are not weighed by our memories. Though, we are more pulled by them. Like the most alluring type of gravity, we are countered from that escape, because grief has made us run in a memory’s direction. We want to feel pain, because pain is all to feel.
Like a drain, death has a path for life. Like a disguise, life has a way to reject death. Like a martyr, both life and death come to live, and recede away in the name of each other.
What have we, of a man that needs no name? For a name would render such weight of grief, needless. A name is such a brand, such a label, so needless to inquire over, unless in memory.
It is he, a painter of no words, though many images. Images that have never decayed in his mind, yet have found themselves onto the canvas, many a time. Worlds of confusion that have been shaped into a scenery of sense, formed about blankness, made as wash of curves or tumble of scraping lines.
Here, upon a day when all weights can press him, as though these winds passing as bereaving sighs are rising from a hollow so deep, he can touch his roots. He can seek the verdure in the underlying wood, of tastes so bitter, though captured as sweet. Here, when grieving winds can pass through him, from forests that hum with the song of the same pressing tension, he can turn towards the earth. He can speak to the soil, to make of one loving face, a famous expression to him.
One woman, without clarity to anyone else, but him, in its magnitude. For her face could alight any drying ember in his heart. It is a stare from hers that could guide the stars to unite in one conjoined discoloring, of that garish white. Of all stars, mingling in his heart, making him wonder to their wandering, about so lost in this field of resplendence.
She could, were she alive, relive countless moments for him, in timeless recollection of countless areas to be lost. She could, were she alive, sing to him to find himself, and align with the innumerable to become a one.
“It is never that a person feels pain for what is present, though rather for what is absent.”
– Modern Romanticism
Stilled,
Without a sign to the breath
That would raise you
To feel the morning’s shower
Against your cheeks,
To receive the gleam
That can display life
For your acrylic eyes.
I could paint you
In the way you are,
Blossomed from a rose in a grave,
Written out as a song of sleep,
As to you, I could not save,
Though death whispered its lullaby.
Marks
Creasing you
In your state of decay.
Love does not shelter
The starved of me,
The empty of you.
You are the dreams
Without their stars.
There is only the guidance
Without my steps.
There is only the lighthouse
Within the storm.
I am unable to crawl
To see where the stars pin themselves
Against the deepest of blue,
In this evening, anew.
I am unable to see,
While I am unable to read
The marks of this death
Upon your corpse, that never fades another breath,
Like the sky that hangs down
The weathered, jeweled crown.
You turn
The blue from the storm,
Leaving me to grapple the waves
By my hands,
Upon this desolate land
Where the ripples break me.
You churn
The waters beneath my crutches.
I rotate these handlebars, slowly,
To fathom your deepest apology
That came riding from your mouth,
When the last breath was taken.
Like a church that never met winter,
Like a lake that never awakened the sun,
Like a flame that never was extinguished,
Like a heart that never began beating.
A love is always mourned
When one remains standing.
To raise a flower from your cheeks,
To stretch the petals to your nose.
I remain here to love
With forever to my heart.
“In the attempt to stop pain, a person learns. It is pain, caused. It is repair, created.
It is structure, in the knowledge through what pain has damaged, that fortifies ourselves against the next blow. We are prepared for future endeavors, when we stabilize ourselves. However, in what we see around us, being of no stability, we are continually reminded that our own ideologies can leak into another person’s innocence. Their innocence is their beginning. Their beginning is their first sight into life. All external instability is for what we believe can be repaired, by our own hands. Yet, to do the work for the struggling individual, leads that person not to safety, though to ignorance. In the pain, a person should be shown how to get past it, not simply saved. To lead a person to be shown on their road past their pain, makes them wise enough to never lean into perpetual dependency.”
– Modern Romanticism
Modern Romanticism 