Short Prose – 300 Words – “Always, Never Lit” – Romanticism – 12/12/2020

How many tears can I hold, in arms, that do not carry the future? I cannot even carry the present forward, for I hold the blame in me. I hold the scars close, the present watered from my eyes, with the blue seas around my feet. Land is so far away. Same with daylight.

Though, the night?

The realm where each thing becomes so bright, encased by the sheer suddenness of what it represents. A coffin. One plug that was pulled, for a life, that had sung songs from its once-beating heart. An encasement, for a tangle of limbs, yet straightened by the funeral home. A house for open burials, where tears released from cheeks, like leaves from bent boughs. It is Autumn, somewhere, though the night shows chapters of winter.

Brightness, and encased, in that box. What it represents is a thing now unplugged, of a life, lowered into the empty space. A void, or a spot where trees are meant to grow. They still loose their leaves, the same as decay falls from the wilting carcass.

How did she last? How does she still remain? I no longer hold her, nor see the pitiable eyes that stared to me. She faces the dust of an eternity, without. No longer a dream may haunt her, as no more a heart can keep her awake.

I buried what I once threw a vow, forward to. I let go of something that never released. This room disturbs me, what with walls brandished in porcelain darkness. The corners threaten me, scorn me, ridicule the nothingness of me. Is there anything left to berate? A brokenness of damage, with life curtailing about its open volumes. Just chapters left to be remembered, of a fuse stayed to be extinguished.

Day #1 – 600 Words – Writing Prompt – “A Gift for Misery” – Romanticism – 12/5/2020

“How can hope, be this sick?” says he, to the fog of himself, before the mirror’s idleness.

For a reflection’s sake, love is his only teardrop to come forward, marking his humanity into the glass. It is at his feet. It is a puddle, mirroring him.

A photograph. Of a woman, to the world. To him, a young girl. A lovely face, delicate within the shadows that encapsulate where this man stands, in the dusky debris behind an office building. A life of blood stains his hands, though not before the reflection. Criminalized, in behavior, though human, in the deepest stain of his heart. As a sun that sets deep, to light the ocean aflame, drifting tears to the edges of eyelids, soon at the pull of gravity.

Oh, burial of a song. A melody that would break Earth, to bloody Mars, as a longing by him to meet this face on the battlefields of greatest love. In his hand, holds his heart.

One demon, who would be him, the man as a criminal. Just a speck that should be erased, though what does he do? As a criminal, he commits theft, to bloody his hands in murder, to hand narcotics to youngsters at schools. Surely a derangement needing an eraser to rub it away. Though, to the heart that he holds, is not something so buried could become unearthed?

Is there love beneath the ruins? Catching himself, in the sickness of it, he lets bleed the tears onto both photograph and mirror. They’d not be crimson, for tears of that sort would merely blot out the reflection of him, in that murky puddle.

He recedes. This man, of much weariness, finds in him the necessity for movement. One step, before the second one comes dragging and crawling. A need to find food, and dine in a place of shelter. For water might find him, in sleet or rain.

Coldness. Bloodless. Feverish in the open, though of his heart. Still unaware of her face, to its recognition, for the photograph does not bare resemblance upon his memory.

For beauty’s sake, for admiration’s purport, it is something to have for a light on his road.

Battered in the inescapable anguish of not knowing. Not staring into dust for its art, nor seeking downpours to quench thirst, for nothing will make him a rope. Nothing will forge what is meant to tie around, then to pull, a future towards his thin arms. He walks. A movement that is at most, slogged, and at the least, dried. As a river that requires tears, he does cry. He does mimic the floods that the skies echo. He does extend storms from his heart, though soon to back into silence within the trembling shadows.

He loves. A certain residence, in his heart, that has swallowed something he cannot tell. All, but a clarity. Everything to him, but a swell, a surge of something extraordinary.

“Who is she?” says he, on occasion, to the curtain that conceals love.

Remembrance. That is love. Memories that lie as flakes of snow upon the eternally-warm heart, to wake it. Blood runs on. A naked vow into the dirt, at his feet, written with disjointed fingers. Though, no clarity. To him, no memory.

He finds himself repeating words into puddles. A photograph. No answers come aloud, creating cold sounds against warm veins, to shock truth into the blood.

To walk, would mean to go on. Though, in the second of his repulsion, drifting from his endless search, he stares to the beauty of a woman. Of a photograph, where answers never float up from the bright eyes, nor the dark hair, nor the lips that retain specks of highlight.

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.

Short Prose – 250 Words – “But, who Understands my Tears?” – Romance – 11/24/2020

Who comprehends, else for you, the gates that have been broken open to spread the blue across the green? Who remembers, soon as they have caught, the subtle details to each of the creases upon these bandages? Of those, with tightness to this skin, that tape my withered form?

Who sees, else but you, the sickness that has made me lurch?

All this pain has not come from you. I am a man whose senses, whose hands, whose words are his own. All this, to create castrated vision. Among this, to never see strength. Yet, in you, I see something magnetic. You pull my eyes to these scars, allowing my light to travel past the darkness. Though, who understands the tears that come? It is you, among no one else.

Love cannot bide your time, though you will see me everlasting. For I know you stand this for the simple sake of sustainment.

As you have bandaged me, you have made me perfect. As I have wounds, you have let the dust become flesh. As I have died, within, for just a single kiss, my mind has come alive.

I worry no more, when you hold this tired and limp form of my own. I live alone, no more, when I know you are near. With a single touch of your hand, you sculpt the life into me. You are not to blame, for anything.

You may depart, with the sun in your eyes. You may see the fog, behind. You may see yourself, finding eternity in another’s embrace.

Short Prose – 350 Words – “Holding you in Empty Hands” – Romance – 11/23/2020

I lay here, recounting the days that you have said those words upon the lakes. Upon where ripples cast ever greater waves, while loosening tides from your eyes, to your lips. There is great sickness, here. There is great powerlessness, here. Among me, so much is torn. Among you, there is much more to be born. Love grows in you, like thorns, like marble that had life. Like the green mixing itself with blues, as the ocean finding home in the land, for a flood.

I leave here, without a tear to name my place, upon Earth. For I loved you, among all gentle fragments of my heart. Though, they’ve become the savagery of a helpless beast. A man, in too much denial. Find your place, my love. The home you call home, is not this man’s own.

You are the blessing that the rose is meant for, in its gift. You are the life that must live. You are the woman whose vulnerable side, must find strength. Your tears will make newer lakes, for fish, for the fowl upon its surface. As you weep, so will the waters be flourished. As I depart, I will go with a breath upon that lake. As you dip your feet into your very grief, you will not see the sunset, though the sunrise for your future. For I give you a crown, made from my own pain. I want you to wear it. I want you to never scorn yourself.

Just dream of a night, without me, without the man whose sickness caused you grief. Find a world without the tears, without your own, and without the many lakes. For they will one day dry themselves, as you will discover an anger. Though, not to the anger, for I wish for your relief, away from your grief.

Like a merriment, due from the sunrise, you shall find an ocean to cross. You shall find a place in time, where love holds many moments more. By all of that, you shall forget me, for I am the beast that can no longer scold you.

Short Prose – 350 Words – “For No One Else” – Romance – 11/11/2020

How upon a river, when that stream comes as tears, you’d ever be swept aside? My hands are disfigured, so unlike yours that bare themselves to the sunlit moon. Mine do tremble, beneath my face that has been smeared. Smeared by ash, while your hands are not with scars, though with the purity I’ve kept.

Can I love until the bleeding stops? For no one else, and for everything more, have I always loved you. My pain is an empire, of its own. My love is a woe, of its own. Though, to your safety, have I’ve continually kept myself beaten down.

Like one hollow demon, devoid of his healing, there is nothing to raise me. I accept that, when the stars do not look like fruit to my eyes. For your delicate consumption, you can pick one to hold, when I lift your heavenly form.

For not my pain to heal, though for yours to be sealed, can I always remain this way. Just a droplet from a raging pour of tears, who never mattered to himself. It is just, for this is the way. This is the way the stars align. Your face, the skies, among the hanging boughs of the birches, as each thing burns a vision for my stare. We are not clothed by our remorse to the past, though by our hopes for the future.

Sing to me, dear one, that you know my pain never mattered. Live for me, when you stand above, knowing that my tears will be lost. I have always lived at your side, growing love with thorns that scrape my flesh. Let us live with the sickness of words, among the proof of action. My pain, is my demonic self. For my anger, I do become something else. Though, for no one else more, can I become something born into the arms of a woman. As you, the love I have kept upon the curves of the Earth, seeing each thing that passes among everything that arrives.

Will you ever love with contempt, to me? I have been terrible, upon a time, though only to never see the demonic appearance, of me. I reject healing, for yours.

Short Prose – 500 Words – “Her Beauty, and Broken Heart” – Romance – 10/11/2020

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.

Short Story Quote – “Love, like a Storm” – 8/25/2020

Oh, ocean. Oh, tempest. Love is a storm that subsides, only when the worriment no longer has thunder. It can die down to a flicker. It will not fully extinguish. For love has its fear, its quakes, its rumbling and the movement that releases great waves. Though, upon this woman’s face, there are only the ripples.”

– An Aging Flame

Prose – “The Infant without a Neck” – Romance – 2/9/2020

Love is radiation. Intended to spread its presence over those trusting of it. What do we have of love, other than simple belief?

We believe in love to do the right thing. It is never expected to manipulate, and then ask for something in return. Love, when denied, creates Hell. One sinks, without love. One lays in wait for death, without the eyes of a loved one to see, in their passing moments.

The infant being born, has been born from a woman in pain.

She is now a mother.

Upon one time in a day of decision, there she stood, this woman, to bare her vulnerable self to the man she trusted to adore it.

Lace and heel, mixed in contrast to her skin, a soapy white. So much purity had adorned the look in her eyes. So much safety to be wanted of a man who’d paw at her flesh. Lust and desire, melded in him, at that moment, and he took her in his arms. He embraced her lascivious expression, kissed it with so much praise, and soon grew a new limb from beneath.

They joined in the embrace of a marriage meant for this.

But, an infant without a neck is merely another pain to bare, for the world to see of its presence. We know pain by how it feels, and cannot deny it. Though, we’ll make an added effort to love.

We’ll love, because all we feel is the pain, and not the love.

Love comes not with the word called “more”, because we already have it. What is there to recall? What is there to remember, when the love has not died?

An infant without a neck, is now an infant not ever to be hanged.

Not by the pain that would always strangulate it, in this moment of innocence. Yet, the now-mother feels pain, and the now-father knows that what will be raised, requires a tad of discipline, so that pain is transformed into strength.

A child without a neck is now a child still sunken in the belief, and naturally the child would be, that he or she cannot involve themselves in misunderstood matters.

An adult without a neck is non-existent. Though, it may exist among the sheltered or yet, the ignorant.

Love will come to raise, and so that added neck is but five or six inches more added to the height of a person. Love raises, and so, what had been pain, is no longer the strangulation, but now the kiss.

Upon the mother’s neck, the man, now a father, offers that kiss, like a droplet of dew let off the blade of grass.