I love you. Dead to the sentiments of this world I arise in light yet resurrected in you. You are my life; you are my breath; if your love should ever fade from me, you are my death.
-
Pleasing you is my greatest pleasure.
You are the most precious treasure.
Never leave me.
Stay with me forever.
-
Baptized in dark waters of pain I arise reborn to reclaim my name. I have tasted the sting of bitter cold; I have walked through the hottest flames. Indifference and numbness renders me somewhat listless. They scold me with harsh words and haughty admonishments. From their defiled pulpits they scream mispronounced words they don’t understand in improper contexts. I look down upon them from above the clouds and I laugh; they swear at me and throw obstacles in my path. I transcend their petty attempts, for they know not of pain and the strength from tribulation that is gained. They know not of sleepless nights and the weary eyes that weep under the blackness of dark rain. I look through their windows and see the sickness and cirrhosis of their souls. Their rapid aging from the years of wickedness and perpetual lying, causes blackness and hardening of the nails and the brittleness of bones. I sit and contemplate my thoughts as a righteous king on his throne. To think they could lie in wait to wound me would show the stupidity of their audacity. They thought they would take advantage of my anxiety, but in their futility they couldn’t find me. I transcend; I transcend then begin again. Submerged in dark waters of agony and writhing pain I arise with fire in my eyes to conquer and reclaim. My enemies must vacate the throne upon which the sword and scepter bear my name.
-
In adoration I look upon your beauty.
I touch you and heaven touches me.
I am infused with love,
But do I confuse love with lust? No;
I know, because in silent reflection
My heart whispers to me … Love, love, love.
I am yet resurrected in the tenderness of your voice;
It is in knowing that you love me
Is why I have cause to rejoice.
It is you that I call on;
It is you who has rescued me from the storm.
My tears fall but I am not betrayed,
For the falling of my tears is not pain but joy displayed.
My burgundy rose; my morning dew;
Be my deep river of passion,
And let me immerse myself in you.
Let me taste of the sweetness of life.
In your glory you stand without a ring,
Yet from the start you were my wife.
Yet from the start you were my life. -
It is in darkness that we have found our true selves. The madness of isolation forces vivid memories of first loves and intimate moments to surface. The restless wailing of souls pierce the eardrums and release emotions within us never before experienced. We grasp these moments like we try to recollect a beautiful dream. We drink sweet wine with tears streaming from our eyes; tears drop in wine glasses. Overcome, we stand one by one and tell tales of love and memories well remembered. As I recollect it was in December that I first clung to my mother’s neck and with love she held me. “You are a good son” are the last words my grandmother would tell me. Red roses on each headstone are gently placed as dusk approaches, but in my heart is their memorial. Smile upon me now oh mother of my inception and in my desolation comfort me like a new born baby.
I have tasted of the bitter portion of misery and wish to consume it no longer. I have dreamed heavenly dreams of walking the endless halls of Valhalla. In the abyss my eyes have grown accustomed to the darkness; I have become an involuntary recluse. It is not I who has left the world, but it is the world that has left me. Passersby see my frailty, and in ghastly astonishment they shun me. The emaciation of once strong muscle and the gauntness and thinness of stretched skin over protruding bone is alarming to their delicate eyes. I am a spectacle of illness in their imaginary perfect world. A leper to be outcast and spat upon in disgust as they pass by the gates of the city. I had once hoped to find love again but found only deception and torment. The days go by, but I refuse to count. Their false pity and insincere well wishes are spotted very easily.
My faith wanes. Will they label me an apostate and seek to burn me at the stake? Will they convict me of heresy if I am no longer willing to pray? Weariness takes over, but insomnia does not allow any rest; the last memory of my love is my head resting on the comfort of her breasts. Hope can sustain, but hope can also be a stark reminder of pain. I stare into the mirror and he stares back at me, but who is he really? I seek answers, but in the interim I long to begin again. At last reborn.
-
The malabsorption of fear renders the intestines nauseous and liquefied with sickness. It must not be ingested and given a chance to spread and metastasize; it must be wholly spit out and rejected. If swallowed, it must be immediately purged from the stomach, heaved out with extreme prejudice and burned in blue fire. But when the table is set, will we eat of the portions of fear, lies, illusions, and fast made conclusions, or will we reject the poisonous banquet?
The sweet fruit of clarity and the now reality longs to be eaten, broken down, and used as nourishment for the system.
The caustic ulcers of contagion bleed, heal and bleed again, in the interim.
-
Beyond vague words that render nothing.
Surpassing all that is shallow and meaningless.
Leaving behind the superficial and insubstantial.
Cleaving to the essential and the perpetual.
Pouring out the essence of the soul
And bearing in raw reality what is and what is hoped for.
Giving of one’s self in fearless devotion.
The coming together of the deeply hurt and scarred
Who find each other in sacred destiny;
The light that is in us that heals all pain with a kiss.
Before you go to sleep my love, allow me to tell you this:I love you.
-
Our forewords are inscribed in blood. Chapters of anguish are effortlessly written. Pens of fire highlight the darkness that can’t be seen by the naked eye. Our records of torment and suffering and pain are intricately layered as the pages are turned. Footnotes take hold of the reader and guide with harrowing precision. See where we walked in laborious breaths clutching tight our heavy crosses; hear the incessant wailing of those who hope for more and want to live, but for so long have only existed but yet endure. Witness the pungent scent of hopelessness, despair, and misery. Read with focused intent, not fast; feel the texture of the paper and turn the pages slowly. With every letter and with every word step into rugged boots and hard worn shoes; take the journey. Stretch your arms North, for Polaris is still the star of our or salvation; we are sufferers in blood and in bonds, we send heaven our voice letters and ask for the angels to break our fetters. Some pages may be blank but tears that fall on paper narrate the chapter. The downtrodden, the anguished, the mute, the outcast and long languished are given voice through the pages to record and tell of their devastation and long sadness; diligently search the index and reread certain passages to gain more insight and to interpret the book in its fullness. Run your hands over the leather binding and admire the gold leaf engraving but be mindful to retain poignant paragraphs that are well worth retaining. We cry out between the lines. Our final chapters are yet to be written.
-
In your arms for days I wept, and kissed you softly as you slept.
