Introduction to a New Novel – “Title: My Waters for Her Fortress” – Romantic

Have we felt the urge to swim?

The both of us; in raging currents, have we forced ourselves out of line with a scenario? A dismay. A tragedy. A disorientating vision that has made promise after promise turn to failure. Why, my sweet Eveline, has all become disproportioned?

My pain runs in tides, in the hardest heartbeat that knocks against my chest cavity. I am in love, though I don’t know. I don’t know when the next torment shall begin.

A message to a cross, where I will become crucified; to die for the sins committed on my own, over the mistakes where you’ve played a part; I write this message so that it spells a certain word: Eveline. The word that digs a knife into my heart. I love you, and you have been loved, to the new moon and to its return to a darkness. Nothing else is mattering to this time, besides the extraordinary that shall come with us.

A petal I now place on this letter, this message, so that there is replaced upon it an aroma that reeks of sweetness. Alike to your breath, alike to your cheeks, alike to your skin, that shares a scent like an ocean breeze. I have become the one that will make you a crown, when my own is with thorns, and yours will be ivory and gold, and bluest sapphires and reddest rubies. Those who ever mock us, will meet death. Love has an arrow of abruptness, and I will pierce any who speak against our desires; to be one, when the world is apart.

Poem – “The Fallen House of God” – Romance

Here, we breathe, disaster,
With our voices, set on high,
As death, surrounds us,
And our might, has departed,
To a stranded shore.

I am in love, only with myself,
A blessing, that has made, me wishful,
A curse, that has made, me lonesome.
What have I, turned upon,
Where will I, turn upon,
Next, when dining upon, a victim?
Will I muse, and take turns, with another?

God has thrown, on my shoulders
A burden, of salvation,
And I rejected it.
Its weight, was too heavy.
Its sight, was too sinister.
Its mattering, too bright.
Its feel, too mustered.

With a curse, drawn backwards,
Into, the sin,
Into, my ravaged den,
Where I scream, over the sun,
I felt the need, to find truth.
Where have I, left it?
Back where, it belonged?

Where has this, selfish side, taken me?
If only to see through, a mirror,
And, to see,
Only myself?
It is the demon, that I hide,
And see, so well,
In eyes, where darkness, blinds the light.

Poem – “Your Dark Gaze Upon Our Destiny” – Personal Poem – Romance

Oh, dearest goddess, with goodness in thou!
You are my everything,
And all my supposed failures,
To dance upon your abdomen,
With how you flee at every second,
With how you are far,
With how you also dance with speed,
That matches my own.

I go down to feed on thy mesmerizing
Face of lips and eyes.
I am soon to see
The love that we’ve destined to be.
What have you become,
In my long arms?
My long arms, that keep you near,
And still, you are far.

Oh, beauty!
With all your current tragedies,
Have you seen the horizon?
Have you seen the future?
Have you seen where I mocked,
How we could perhaps never be?
I will dance for eternity,
For this love is for everything.

No death shall teach us to be nothing,
No misery shall ever be our company,
Hope surrounds us,
In every blessing.
Blessed by a magical divinity,
And never to hope for else.
In all what we’ve become,
There is nothing more to reveal.

You are the touch, the fiber, the serpent that I kiss,
A beauty and a flame, a desire and a shame.
I love thee, and you shall become mine,
In all my hours in toil, in all my days in grime.

“Parted Lips” – Poem – Romantic

I fell upon thy parted lips,
And fled among their washed hue,
Never knew, never knew,
The placement of their kind,
That were drawn over a face of mine.
Your parted lips,
Are as my own.

A woman, and a man,
Your beauty, and my insanity,
We’ve both done wrong,
To fall apart, and to be anew.

I am in love only with water,
Because thou does not represent land,
No fertility and no newness.
Only I, as myself, am new.
New beside you, with two parted lips.

Poem – “The Failures of Children” – Romantic

They, who crawled, naked, in grief,
Were beside the forests, in failing sleep.
Sinister shadows, were their playmates,
Begging unto God, for piety’s absence.

I slew, their lives, in amass,
Emptied their reflections, in glass.
For she, who called me abroad,
To taste the banquet, of my dreams.

She was, to the sinister playthings,
A toy, to behold, for their musings.
I sold, a love, for a lonely hour,
Folded plenty, the songs of shame.

Her music, which lifted, my fire,
Drew blood, into my desire.
I gave up, the world, for the stars,
Knew the beginning, for the almighty end.

She waved, a gentle hand, to me near,
Caused the tears, to erupt, in unquiet fear.
I singled out the prey, one by one,
Not for God, but for Heaven’s wrath.

For a beauty, to be in my name,
Is to me, a release of shame.
I gave the clinging, to her undying folds,
Of a dress, where children, threw their tears.

Poem – “Her Skin Among the Embers” – Romantic

Your rarity, on thine loving lips,
Lay kisses, upon where I sit,
Go crawl in misery, on death ships,
Bask in embers, of fires lit.
I would watch, those hands, cover tears,
To imitate, a sleeping body,
You could face, the dawn as night,
Sink under trauma, of the years,
But searing embers, raise the study,
Of lifeless voids, piercing blight.

For the embers, awoke my sense,
Tears slide, off a pale cheek,
The want of joy, is my defense,
Those eyes, of sadness speak.
I have written volumes, in your name,
Scorn is drowning, your tongue,
Misery’s grief, are those words,
In each tress is mournful shame,
Robes of priests, you are clung,
Wrath for children, grief affords.

Charm – “Poem of a Woman Near a River” – Romantic

Of stars, to stir through bleak dusk,
Down rivers of a trailing tear,
A woman raw in flesh, scent in musk,
Subtle sigh in mournful fear.
She would quell her beating chest,
Lay a hand below her chin,
As upon her face, a wash of white,
To echo a tune in deathly rest,
Strangled strings, that of a din,
Song of misery a strange delight.

But O, woman! How she sings,
Tears cause the river to flow,
Great ancient knell loudly rings,
Once, a dagger gleamed below,
In tapered fingers aside to belly,
Beautiful! Her eyes say much,
More than heart beating for shame,
Nothing, my heart feels no pity,
As she charms me in that clutch,
A tongue speaking grief the same.

I watch each strand of every tress,
Curl over shoulder, over pallid throat,
Tapered fingers curl over breast,
As every tear falls to devote,
In time by a frozen river,
Milky currents passing along,
Warms the aching in my heart,
For slender fingers do quiver,
And reddened lips singing a song,
For death brings us both to part.

The waking of a morning,
Speaks the joys from before,
As pale features light my grieving,
This poem of a woman’s lore,
Of a cold stone in a void,
A charm to grace my love,
Charming both beauty and grace,
Pain I thoroughly enjoyed,
There flies the raven above,
Down to rivers frozen in space.

“A Marvelous Waiting Game” – Romantic Poem

Of eye and iris, combined,
I combed the earth, to then find those pair,
Dipped in honeydew and nectar alike,
Stark against pallid skin and reddened cheeks,
As thy making were by God’s artisans.

Your eyes, and the cries you emit,
By the graces of angels,
By the disgrace of my fallen empire,
By the dismay to my withered pride,
You are still the only love.

A beauty with bleakness to tress,
And red to lips,
A beauty with eyes that fall in the idleness of waking,
A beauty with no equal, unmatched by makers of newness,
For the eyes that I behold are a waiting game.

I look upon them with a face so stern,
I look, with the entrancement,
The enticement, the amiable nature of my mind,
To be pleasant in sight of a one,
The nurtured one, the rose in the garden.

You have never been the disappointment,
And I never faulted you for any failure.

A beauty with eyes that wait, as I wait,
For a death that would make our love finally resting.

“The Dismay of thy Gleaming Back” – Poem

Upon a night, where the moon rose to stay
And look upon us with fervent fervor,
I saw behind that dress that covered thou,
A white back that gleamed beneath the silver.

A tempting look in your eye,
You had a back that gleamed beneath the silver,
With a coat of sheen that grew to bloom
In the radiance of an early afternoon.

The dress that covered thou,
Is of lace, embroidered in a streaming silk,
Each strand is weaved to perfection,
To shield a body for God.

Would you open your mouth,
To receive a tongue?
A tongue to lash your swollen cheeks?
You are marvelous when you would grieve.

You are as mighty as all beauty
When thwarted by sensuality.
It is because I am
The blessing of a simple fruit,
And the admirer of resplendence.

A beauty, that you are,
With a sheen to a back,
All white against the dress that is black,
And a face that shows rosy cheeks alack,
For thou has turned from me!

A back, a back, and a back,
Your face not ever known.

The “Change vs. Improve” Scenario – The Concept between Changing and Improving

Q: The fundamental difference between changing and improving is, as you describe it, changing to what is going to work, and to improve is to improve by adding layers. Is this correct?

A: To change would mean to divide oneself between the working and the not working. And to improve oneself would mean to work off the “already working” and then add layers.

Q: And you say that in the past, society has displayed the latter method?

A: That is correct, because though technology has not allowed for better results for medicine, we were improving drastically through artistry. And in today’s time, what is seen as useful is, of course, knowledge. Artistry is not at all useful, because things which produce emotion, like a painting or music is inherently useless. The word “useless” of artistry is related to how a human would not “make use” of a loved one, unless they’d put them to work.

Q: And you say that during the current times, society has displayed the former method?

A: The former method, meaning to change oneself, is the enactment of changing between the “working” and the “not working”. Artistry is inevitably lost in a society that gains more touch with the “useful” over the “useless”. Is a woman at all “useful” if they are held in a home, without anything to reveal use? They soon become useful, and are never truly loved. It is because love is stagnant, unchanging, as it is never meant to be anything other than love. To love is to love forever, and for this reason, it is why previous scientific methods were seen as inferior to the current ways, because “improvement” was not made for science, though was made consistently for art. To “change” is to merely change, and to do no more than swap between the “working” and the “not working”, until one eventually and inevitably settles on “working”. It is because one wishes to be seen as useful in a society that operates like a singular machine.