Writing
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To the future, the artist can tell where the present will go. For the present, the artist can see that the past shall shape his wisdom, so that the future holds clarity. For to what the artist can create, there is always a distance from Creation, to futurist scenery. Though, it cannot be that an…
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The funeral strikes the hour,As I waltz pastThe raining petalsThat do not,RepeatingDo notBurn, nor tearApart, at their solaced shower. Her hair falls back, lifeless,Never againTo be brushed by the hand,My hand,Facing the floor,Soaring towards the naked shoreWhere eyes can glimpse my stroking tears. I had loved,Meagerly loved,Simply lovedThe rose gathered amongstAll these forgotten petals.Her face,A…
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Weaken your eyes,Face your tears,Consume your own fears,Oh, yearning woman.The House of GodHas condemned youUpon the marriage to divorce,Upon the union with derangement,With wilted roses gathered in armsUp towards the altar.You clean yourselfWith showers of pity. You are the petalClung to the needless stem,For you desire a thorn. You have tears growing from your eyes,Drinking…
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White-petaled coversOver a mattress, made of blackVelvet,Caressing the back of one pallid beauty.Her dreams come as nightmares,Wading as the furnaceTo heat her face, pound her heart,Receding time like the grayest oceanTo a former shore. Just a dead love,That wed too quickly,And died too helplessly.TearstainsMock the song of the future,While bleaknessTreasures weakness. Unceasing painTo the woman…
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Glares of rust,As my hands sift past curtainsBlocking memories from neededIntrusion.My fault becomes evident,A quieted beliefOf some Spirit, full of Holiness,Radiant in wherever Temple was builtTo house this guiltOf sin, immortal,Of loathing, endlessOf those dripping at the endOf a stained blade. My life,Woeful,As my wifeLies crippled in blanketing fears.Why memories mustTurn fault to the glaring…
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“No two loves are alike, anymore than two flames of a candle share equal radiance.” – Modern Romanticism
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Like cradles,TeeteringWithout their silenced infants,I am in the bitterness of retirementAway from a darkness,Into a light.Like the words I craft from sinister hands,Like the faces I conjure from a weathered mind,Misery follows. She has her hands sunk in the ocean,Lifting waves.For her pale arms ride from the moonTo the limitless sands,Beneath departureOf tides that carry…
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Came as a ghost,She did,For I falter before the ivory altar,And sing out,Cry out, my hollowness to God.The ring was not set,As the grave was never metWith many tears enough to growThe fondest flower, from below. I recite all I know,I give all I can bestowTo the unforgiving might of emptiness.My heart has neverLashed me…
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“To him, of her, he could not call what he’s seen as imperfections. He could not, for he viewed with an eye that held love to its sight. Almighty in its department, love perfected those imperfections, and they were no longer able to become broken.” – Modern Romanticism
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“Whispering through the soil, would ricochet the sheer emptiness that pertains to his defeat. Her defeat, too, runs through the dust and debris of the gathered earth, of miles into endlessness. One word from his mouth would not rupture a thing. One word from his mouth would not ever damage another thing. One finger, or…
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How is pain felt? Is it not like the storm gathered in its heaviest gray? Would the gray remain for long, before letting loose what it has carried, being of its rain? Are we not the same in what we dispassionately yearn to be rid of? It is that brief moment of logic where we…
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All dreamsBecome beautiful lightsWithout the sun that awakens us,Deep in our nights,Covered in our blindness. We stageDifferent acts,To attractDifferent flies,For we are the death, wilted over. Just memoriesThat bleed, for eternity.Staging nothingness,Beaming beneath a golden light,Hovering above cresting waves. We are movingWithout feet.We are tremblingIn the final burialOf our hearts, in the sand. We have…
Modern Romanticism 