Tag: Short Prose

Short Prose – 250 Words – “Gift you Strength, Bleed your Weakness” – Tragedy – 5/4/2021

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 live. I’ve given you the life sentence, to someplace for your adoration. Would you want Death, in life’s stead? Would you steal the moon, for the sun? Would coldness be your rebuke, to this promise of warmth? You would confess to being of another’s kind, of Death’s kinder words, for He has perhaps promised you more.

To the noose, you would go? Without the fortune of love, you should slow? A pulse to decline, a heartbeat that once skipped upon rocks to meet the other end of a lake, now to be just a repetition for your descension.

Love has made you wanting. For rest.

Though, not in these arms. Though, within skeletal ones. Death has made you a bed. You would lie on it. You would count the stars, in fierce vigor. You would then erase the moon, into blackness.

What concerns you, my love? Fragile one, what has turned you? Far from me, away from me, bleeding through Death’s door, with your back to me?

You would rain upon your own shelter. You would bend me, to break me. You would weigh me. We were both heavy. Were we not?

Short Prose – 400 Words – “Scars from Raven Claws” – Romanticism – 3/12/2021

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 furnace of death’s warmth. You tear. You yank. All of you wants me to lift this side of myself, though I am too heavy. I am simply wearing my tears as crystal or diamonds, though the wealth could not be brought anywhere else.

Futures with you, all crushed. Slowness to sobriety. Stay with your own, the fevers upon your cheeks where kisses were laid by others, among the snow. Among the debris, the dust is yours to lay blankets over. Express your hope, where flowers are fallen. Keep your eyes closed, when the sun begins to set.

A funeral demands a winter. There is a raven, among the clouds. There is ice around that animal’s eyes. There is all that, while talons have scarred my symptomatic heart. I once felt love, as though a sickness. Offered of friendship, presented in the ribbons in radiance. Offered of another heart, asymptomatic of the tendrils of love’s blight. A head caught in a curtain, with nothing transparent around. Here, to being lost, where love presented its cost.

I find myself in a heath, where winds come weathering my ankles, keeping my stance a sore one. Funerals walk alongside myself, in the depression of abandonment. Friendship tossed me, overboard. I disused myself, against the coming waves, gifted of the flowing and teeming winds. Coldness, as an encasement, once then to drink of a drunken stare, last to see me drowning. Of an anxious embezzlement, being that theft to a broken and useless heart. I disused myself. I fed myself to the fanned flames.

Fever and winter, with raven talons to scratch my worn heart. Like a cotton shirt, ripped with ease, much among the brush that grows the same for the garments of no real warmth. Just a yearning for summer, of being appropriate against the idea of winter. In being buried, I became the blanket. Just another sadness, among the heat, within the grain, drunken upon the waters that come collecting to me. Into me, those waters, as they silence my pain, if only for a moment while the rest floods on.

Short Prose – 350 Words – “Lost in your Arms” – Romance – 12/1/2020

A burial. You are my tomb. My place, in the world, is forsaken. Upon you, I will rot, decay and slumber. In your arms, I am lost. I do not heal, for I am lost.

I have always burned a trail for my feet to carry me. I have executed innocents, for the sake of my path. I did not look over my shoulders, to see their shoulders. To see the weights pressed upon them, I did not look. I did not wish for, in my time of pain, to see theirs. On my path, I went straight to your arms. In them, I last little more then a petal without its parent corolla. Though, I will die, treated by your last kisses.

I contemplate over my endless end. It is just a second more, though it is infinite. A pallid reckoning that sweeps me, as you do, gently to its reverse, in force. The love of you, attempts to bandage me. I cannot be bandaged, as I cannot be healed. Look at me, like an infant, aborted. Release me, as though you never loved me. Leak me out of you, like something to forget.

Draw me in the sand, though let the winds sweep the dust away. Place a curtain atop my demise, to then set a fire upon it. Let me not be known to you.

Diseased, as I am, living in times so natural to me. Loving you, as you love the dead.

You are weeping. Tears exit your eyes like dewdrops hanging from the ends of grass-blades. How many dreams must imagine themselves, for you to set your own path? Could you lose yourself on another mile, upon another extensive cloud?

Cross yourself as ivory in the dirt. Make yourself the purity that becomes known, to the world among its filth. Lift yourself. Send yourself, and do not look over your slender shoulder to see me, wasted in the wreckage.

You are the pathless angel, who must discover a course with your wings. Find utmost certainty away from me. Help the devils, driving empathy into them as a nail.