They kept falling,
Sleeping in fields of blood
With their eyes wide open.
Category: Poetry
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It is the ones we love deeply that blind us.
In the time of heartbreak and weeping,
We pray that true love will find us.
It is the long trail of ignored subtleties
That always come back to haunt us.
In the coldness of betrayal and loneliness,
Beautiful promises previously whispered are worthless.
The days and nights of sacrifice,
And in-depth talks of hopes for the future become fruitless.
Sometimes anguish can turn the once loving and affectionate,
Into the dispassionate and ruthless. -
She dies inside but wants to live.
The purging of years of pain is like giving birth again and again.
In labor she wails, pausing in-between screams to deeply inhale.
Her spirit carries her over peaceful waters, and she will not fail.
She is weary, but her resolve forces her to endure;
The day approaches when she will smile angelically
In the heavenly glow of her beauty and cry no more. -
When I am gone from this world
If all I could leave behind were my tears
Remember the places I wept
And if there is fertile soil there
Scatter seeds of roses
So I can be resurrected in them
And witness the dawning
Of the morning sun again -
I wanted to hold you and kiss you,
but I had to turn my face away;
I love you, and I didn’t want to see you that way.
Forgive me for my cowardice;
I sat in a wooden pew and tried to shield myself
from what young eyes should never have to witness.
There was pain in so many of us.
We were young and motherless,
in deep waters, running rudderless,
trying to put our pain behind us.
We faced the world with sorrowful souls,
but we were never told, that agony uncontrolled
could permanently damage us. -
Come and see the place where she wailed. Witness the bed that is perfectly made and the carpet that is bloodstained. Read the many writings of her pain. See the end of heart-rending journals that bear her name. Reason with your heart, and see how her life could never be the same. Feel the agony she endured, again and again. View the pictures of her smiling before it happened. Experience the aftereffects that rendered her gaunt in her suffering. Bear witness to the listlessness in her movements, her responses, her walking, and manner of talking. Internalize the pain she felt, after her friends and family turned on her, in their apathetic balking. See them now — see them with their eyes filled with tears, crying. Listen carefully, and you can hear the fiber of their souls withering. Extend your arms, and touch the walls that she rested her head in her weeping. Touch the comforters and pillows, that her tears fell and permeated in her sleeping. Close your eyes, and contemplate the aspirations and dreams of a beautiful being. Gather the strands of her hair, that after she brushed, fell on her favorite chair, for safe keeping. Before you go, sign her last entry lovingly, then kiss the door that she was carried through, in her leaving.
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Through open windows, curtains move to and fro
as if dancing in rhythm to the music of spring breezes.
Intimate moments are uncovered by the morning sunshine
that illuminates two lovers in-between glimpses.
Inside, there are tender kisses, tears of joyous crying,
and the erotic secrets of sensual whisperings.
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If only I could touch her face
and tell her through my eyes
what words could never describe. -
Created in divinity, she is much more than beauty
but the embodiment of a mystical mystery that the eyes can’t see.
To touch her essence, you must love her unconditionally.
To reach her depths, you must draw out her whispers of long held secrecy.
There must be an ethereal intimacy that bonds the souls together;
In sincerity, you must whisper sweet words to her heart to find her treasure.
In her, there is a transcendent quietness that brings peace
and a supreme love that break the chains of inhibition that causes release.
She is immersed in divinity, from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet.
The warmth of her love, causes joyous tears and peaceful sleep.
In passionate kisses, the taste of her lips are sweet;
The strands of her hair, are like celestial waterfalls where angels meet. -
When love is no more, the viciousness of words
is the the weapon that cuts to the core;
all that is left are melancholic whispers, and thoughts of regret.
Years of unhappiness is a slow death,
culminating in the gasping of air in final breaths—
from deep wounds, the soul is disfigured,
and the heart relinquishes passionate feelings in its relent.
There are no goodbye kisses or last intimate experiences;
after the last screams, hatred rises to the surface,
and tears are shed in stagnant silence.
The door closes, and the first night of loneliness
brings more melancholia and darkness.
In an empty dwelling, after it finally sets in,
reality is cruel in its starkness.
