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 – 250 Words – “Of Sadness that Weighs” – Tragedy – 4/12/2021

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 rotting dead. To them, of mind and heart, as they are not one, for him.

A beat within his trembling form had once wandered the world. A face now stills itself, upon the grave. One woman’s hand, dropped from his, and now his eyes are matted in ice. His face, of how his jowls quiver, of how his eyes never depart from the sight; and he is weeping.

Each tear a droplet of crystal, forming as the weight of his soul. He sings outward, “What could be, for us, of us? A true belief, was this love. A kind and careless deceit, is now what remains of it. How could tears appear so endless? How can lakes appear so vast? How can silence sound so crude? How can this love of mine breathe no more?”

A sickness, of love, symptomatic and asymptomatic, coming with the wails and then the soft gusts of each retreat towards the future. Ah, grief. We do not ever find the past a place that never pains us. The future is calling. The memories are leaving. All wounds are healing.

Though, he is bleeding. He is grieving. He is now the kindling for the flames of sadness. A heart broken with the pain that will not grow as silent as the grave, until he walks on.

Short Prose – 200 Words – “Play the Notes of Tragedy” – Romanticism – 3/8/2021

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 art of her suffering. Submerged as the dropped stem, I’d become, in the vast lakes of her soul. Then, to find her, could I ever bring her up?

What would the steps become? The mere walk, overboard, is enough to loosen me. Though, to take her from this bleeding state, can kill me. Carrying thorns from puddles, to the skies where open Heavens could be ours. Raising her from this rotten frame, sheltered as she’s been, by the old, nihilistic place of her decay. Impoverished by the din of time, of a few wails that carry her song through an outburst. Would the steps then overtake?

Falling through, as one wasted petal from the stigma of a rose, I could find something more alike. She’d be a raven, deep in of forested fables, doused however in the blood of her home. Half-way slain by the thickets. Thorns that have penetrated her flesh. And love would merely take the stain. Though, my own would drop her towards the latter half of her demise.

Poem – “Walking on Endless Earth” – Romanticism – 3/5/2021

Of the snow that takes shape
Of a man’s crumpled hand,
With edges
That carry him down.

Of the breaking mind,
Wallowing in sustenance
Too heavy to hold,
Though he walks.

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?

Poem – “Father, will you Vow for Me?” – Romance – 4/9/2020

Father, will you allow me one tragedy?
Blessed by your missing love,
I have been able to offer from me
To the woman of my destiny
One vow, spoken with trembling lips
And a heart that skips
Beats, in the stillness of new fallen sun-rays.

Life did not hold me under its nose,
Nor under its thumb
Enough to belong to the stone.

Life had its own cradle
To render me in its lifelessness
While the cradle had thorns about every side.

Rotten flesh
Stunk like Hell upon the Earth.
And a great descent from my eyes
Were the tears upon her rosy cheeks.
Father, will you grant me
One moment to see her form
Beneath the soil,
Beneath the blood boiled?

My eyes cast shadows
Upon what I cannot see
So deep in the light.

Do not leave
Before I leave,
For I do want to see your light fade
Finally from my eyes.

Poem – “The Love never Had” – Romantic Poetry – 2/15/2020

Above ground,
You were grand, with eyes like the emerald waters
Of two distant ponds.
And, you had the clearest vision, as a woman of realism.
And me, a man of idealism
Drew fantasies in curves, and grew obsessive
Over our love’s successive
Nature to disasters.

I became the savior for you,
As you had winter for blankets,
And I removed them
For the summer to cloak your bare shoulders.

Love controls the monarch
Most responsible with his wealth.
My wealth was a heart,
But, it would not buy our way past fate.

I grew to despise you,
For something you never did.

Where is my love?
It is now a pain
I am unable to avoid,
With grief that weighs heavily on my fingers.

Philosophy – “The Oxymoron of Creative Non-Fiction” – 12/18/2019

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? And, what defines the “creativity” element for “non-fiction”?

Non-fiction should be as accurate as possible. Inevitably so, even for a film that utilizes “creative liberties” as it is called, to deliberately twist the truth, is the same as telling a lie.

Would then, the telling of someone’s tragedy to someone in the real world, outside of the pen and page, ever be “creative”?

To add creativity to a person’s tragedy, to turn what should be taken seriously into nothing more than a joke, seems a bit sadistic. Is that not how Batman’s Joker became the Joker? All of his life’s tragedy became comedy, after he was told that his life was a lie. Therefore, the Joker made it the lie that comedy is, as creative as possible with his murders.

Turn the truth, the tragedy, into comedy, and it becomes a lie.

We begin to not take seriously the event that should have been portrayed as dry truth, when we add creativity to the pile, so that we tell no more than lies.

Poem – “The Art of an Angel” – Romance/Descriptive

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 witness.
All of beauty’s image, stands before me,
In the caressing, of angel wings, and a lucid smile.

There, I see a face, engraved with stones, of purple, and red,
And a naked form, of ivory

There are, to each leg, the comparison
To pillars, of ice, or pillars, of marble.
I adore her shape, in her making, that trembles,
Under the warmth, of a dashing sun!

“Face me,” as I say it, to face me,
You are now loved, once more,

By a man, who made a woman, as a statue,
An admiration, for a life, so lonely.
I am in awe, as I’ve remained, in awe.
Movement? Is there movement, in a lifeless shape?

There must, be ebony,
A stain, on my fractured heart.
It is there, and I’ve felt it.

It has covered, and here, I know it,
Before the denial, I’ve kept.

Poem – “I Believe in Beauty as a Forethought” – Romance

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 loathing
The external,

Of my sordid disposition,
Of my farewell declaration.
Of my mimicked beauty,
Of all you see of me.

Let me lick thy throat,
For guilt has overthrown me,

From the crown of achievement.
Deceit! Give me wielding,
Of all immeasurable beauty.
Have I North before South?

Have I lips before groin?
Have I mind before loin?
Lovely is her exterior, so vivid with life,
Aromas, and the fertility of the soil.
Of ocean breeze, and Autumn leaves.
Of stillness in death, and stillness in love.

I make of her, what I have always willed,
Until the day I dine on her form

It is a form of violet ashes, and much to be mused.

All Beauty Falls without its Protection

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 leave, for the music, of my soul, has lifted,
To new heights, beyond thee.

I gave thee ground, to tread,
To see this empire, as meager, as soiled,
But to pity me, is to find emptiness,
You’d find it greater, than what I’d built.

In drawing upon beauty, a blade of skin,
Marking myself, my name, into your silk,
In conquering thee, I gave plentiful graces,
To the sea, and to the sky, my domain.

You are loved, no longer.
My beauty, my pain, my shame.

Utter demises, and utter bliss,
Therefore, to walk alone, is my wish.