Tragedy
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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
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Soft, simple words edged on the tongue that speaks nothing audible, between the voice that coughs on grief. A symptom. And, only a symptom. Of a stain noticeable to the mind, yet invisible to the heart. To what can ridicule, for its current place. Then, what will wish for its place among the silence 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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Fragile,MournfulOf the snow that takes shapeOf a man’s crumpled hand,With edgesThat carry him down. Weakened,OvertakenOf the breaking mind,Wallowing in sustenanceToo heavy to hold,Though he walks. BleedingSunrise, into the wastesOf burned fields,Sickened moors,Orchards that loose more applesThan ever he did of sin. Will waterQuenched the starved lips,Reminiscent of a kissNever allowed? Will the moonShow its true
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Father, will you allow me one tragedy?Blessed by your missing love,I have been able to offer from meTo the woman of my destinyOne vow, spoken with trembling lipsAnd a heart that skipsBeats, in the stillness of new fallen sun-rays. Life did not hold me under its nose,Nor under its thumbEnough to belong to the stone.
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Above ground,You were grand, with eyes like the emerald watersOf two distant ponds.And, you had the clearest vision, as a woman of realism.And me, a man of idealismDrew fantasies in curves, and grew obsessiveOver our love’s successiveNature to disasters. I became the savior for you,As you had winter for blankets,And I removed themFor the summer
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If non-fiction is defined as the recount of a specific event that occurred in reality, then just how much creativity can be attributed to a real occurrence, before it becomes fiction? As in, the truth must be nothing but the truth, and if this is a fact, then where is the line for the creativity?
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How do I, describe the one,Who has, lifted me, from deprivation?How do I, describe the woman,So beautiful, as to, unearth woes, from a, past life? To make me see, all that, has come to be,And the failures, from faiths, I transgressed, too horridly,All mathematics, and all stars,Point to an answer, I’ve long been, desiring to
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Make of the torment,What thou will,Make of it.The priests call cues of negligence,Make faces ripe with consequence.And deliver judgement,Like God in deliverance.Oh, woman! A passion of mine. A careful consideration,To what may be beautiful,Has long been beautiful,Beside me, in her endearment.Beauty makes apples,And apples for breasts. I am tired of loathingThe external,Of my sordid disposition,Of
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We had loved, without glimpses, to our present,Allowing its gift, to surge, through our hearts,We had called upon, love to swell,Dancing on shores, where waters collected. I do love thee, with all the flames, of my heart,I love thy beauty, with all the light, that flickers. I leave thee, to roam, among the planet’s edge,I
Modern Romanticism 