“When we love, we tear away a soldier from a zone where he may gather wounds, to a home where he may gather comfort. For there have been many an occurrence, for a soldier to trade away his firearm, for a bandage.
It is so, from being used to being useless, that the soldier who is torn away from a place that may tear his own body into wounds manifold, is now loved in a place that will no longer use him.”
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.
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.
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.
“In contrast to love, there is business and discussion. There is explanation and subtlety, among all things related to dishonesty. Ask a question to expect honesty, and if an explanation is offered, a lie has been offered. All things related to ‘the deal’ are related to deception. A deal is not a promise, but a token for advantage. Love is a path of honesty and commitment, and there is nothing better a representation of it than a marriage; though, people who think on a marriage will see a contract. A contract, a deal, and then, perhaps divorce will follow. Such people should liken their thoughts on ‘the deal’ with divorce, and never the marriage. Create the deception, the divorce, and a deal has not been broken, though has been made, because divorce signifies material gain, and never anything to do with the love meant to be eternal within marriage.”
We are makers, Of truest intent. Never as disbelievers, To the whole state of our truth, We are sharp deceivers, When unleashing the bitterest tears, But, as lovers, we are stark beauty Upon waves of highest elevation.
I am in disbelief for your majesty, And so, I go to embrace you, While a crown of barbs girdles your head, Each laced with the most fragrant venom. Bless me, kind woman! I am in love with you.
One hold, and one kiss, Is all to receive in reception of you. We’ll play the tired game of mystery, The sort that would entrance.
Death has both angel wings and fangs, It has both, the conceit of the rose, And the boldness of fungi, While love has merely the boldness, Of a life made simple.
I kiss your sweet lips, I taste the warm breath coming from within you, The most beautiful thing of you Is the memory of a moment.
It is this moment, and it will forever be This moment. We dine, as we will forever dine, On all our fragrances, On all our beauty.
One hold, and one kiss, Is all we need for a greeting.
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
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
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.
In all my imagining, While haunting memory is the music To my mind in its longing, I find myself to view a painting That shows the curves of a naked woman, While her lips are reddened By the blood offered in my hands. Would I reach to kiss?
I desire the wine, next, For a mask is only a shape To what has gaped my wounded spirit, As I rely on awakening to push myself, From the cruelest sleep. Winter drenches me in her family Of white bone and frailest tone, As I have found your seat to be empty.
Pull me closer, To what makes you shiver. I promise, by what little strength I still possess, to make you comforted. I am in love with a promise, As I adore the curves to a woman, As I dream of kissing sweetest kisses, Upon sweetest lips.
Sing to me, Your song of wailing pain. Reveal your sorrow, As I reveal mine in this dim light, Of a remaining winter. I fail, when I have been brought down, To be beside you, in a grave of soil, As all angels, we’ll soar, nevertheless.
“I love you, It is for that reason, That I will not let you fall. With eyes that gleam under moonlight, And features that show fear before my sight, I do love, and for that, I will seek strength, So that beauty will not be hurt By a swinging tear.”
“There is no greater power than the will to release.
To differ the necessity from the convenience is the direct difference between life and death. It is the difference between the simplicity and the complexity. In life, we dwell over death, over failure. In failure, we have failed, and we have nothing else, for we are dead.
The beauty in submission is to reject all external measures of ‘diverse wealth’, because that introduces death to life. Diversity, that is, is the death. The dwelling; the constant question; and then, the confusion, makes the one without simplicity, enough to draw upon the whereabouts of darkness, into life.
In death, beauty has been buried. Recognition rots, and we soon see a person’s skeleton as any other skeleton, for it was covered in flesh when the person was alive.
We had recognized the eyes, and now as a skeleton, there are no eyes.
We had recognized the lips, and now as a skeleton, there are no lips.
Submission comes naturally to a woman, when she will reject the multiple complexities of a world that offers her much.
To a man’s eyes, the only thing he desires for a woman is to see her dressed in simplicity. As if she were in the bedroom, bared in flesh, and not overdrawn in garments so much to clothe her naked form.
And there is nothing worse in a world than to tease truth.
To be half-clothed, turns truth towards uncertainty.
To be half-clothed, makes honesty only half-way released. It makes the orgasm only half-way expended, and the love only half-way given. One should not ‘slightly agree’ or ‘neither agree nor disagree’ as it would ask for in a survey, but only either say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. That is the honesty.
Honesty is never partially given, and should be known for its answer in the immediate moment.
For a deceived world, people will continually ‘work to discover their truth’.
They will unearth that ‘buried beauty’ and disturb graves.
Metaphorically speaking, they will do this.
They will unearth history, rather than leaving the past to rot. And why are the people who enjoy ‘discovering their truth’ more prone to committing suicide? It’s for the reason of what depression does to the human. Depression is, as a definition, a focus on the past.
Honesty is immediate and offered by Nature upon birth.
And soon, one will carry that truth until they die.
For submission, honesty and simplicity are very much important aspects to what ‘weakness’ stands for; and that is, to be vulnerable when one should never hold a statement back.
One is always vulnerable when conveying truth.
In tears, or in rage, that is when a person releases.”
Cling upon me, For your immediate comfort. You have wept with a shivering form, And eyes that obey all contention. A face that needs no bliss, as mine Or your own, for the coming deprivation.
Disease me, your wounds of many fields. Kiss me, O woman of much gathered, Suffer not, when the world comes tumbling Upon our bosoms, so wide and heavy. We are but deformed infants, Birthed without care.
When we scream, who will hear us? When we strike, who will we hit? When we bleed, who catches such drops? When we feel, who feels us?
We are so much the crime, the fear for a world, That turns inside out, to see itself. We are the parasites for them, As we care for them.
Oh, beauty. You have oceans too deep for this world, And eyes that would strangle its own veins. Deny me all, so that I may see me maddened, Make me quiver as you do, So that I may break your fall.