For two seasons we shared in the endless pleasure of euphoria.
We were not in love, but we were lovers,
For we both belonged to another;
And on that night we said our final goodbyes
We tasted of pure ecstasy for one last time.
Though I feigned apathy, for long I burned in the fires of jealousy.
Did I fool myself and take cover in fallacies of not loving her?
I took counsel with my heart and it told me,
If it was meant to be it would be;
But still, reasoning and rationality couldn’t console me.
The ghosts of her sounds of ecstasy haunt me.
I am perturbed as I try to purge myself of her memory.
Tag: Blog
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At the crossroads where melancholia and sadness meet
The anguished drag heavy crosses on dark streets,
With hell’s heat beneath their feet. -
Thoughts flood in and intrude.
I must remain calm in the storm.
Torment rains down with stark reality;
I have dreamed of having peaceful dreams
But have only seen the underbelly.
Its rawness is hideous and scary.
Indeed in its presentation it is ugly.
My portion has been suffering
And I drink of that cup daily, unwillingly.
With a look of sincerity a solemn faced priest
Pulled me aside and told me:
Say 1 Our Father, 3 Hail Mary’s and 1 Glory Be.
I have sought heaven but for me are the gates open?
For long we have been suffering and hoping,
And hoping yet again.
Has the darkness become my bedfellow
And perpetual anguish my friend?
Lovers see my pain and tell me they love me,
But by the dawning of the morning light
They are gone ironically.
Understanding has only crossed my path in passing.
The spirit yearns for the substance of love
And something substantial and lasting.
About my life, I put pen to paper,
But where do I begin?
They accuse me of apostasy
And desire to tar and feather me;
Thoughts of their hypocrisy increase my anxiety.
In my lament, I remember my mother’s torment;
The nights of crying uncontrollably.
Was it somehow acquired or was it passed down to me?
In the scope of things does it matter at all?
Maybe the answers could be found in my genome
But it is in my own thoughts that I roam.
What is there to say of bitter winters
And the depressed drinking chamomile tea by the warmth of fires?
What is there to say of past loves of yesteryear who are no longer here?
The nothingness and silence of the darkness offers no solace. -
I was wounded and you patiently tended to me.
I was cold and you brought me inside of your warmth.
You are a woman among women, to who a blue diamond is akin.
Just to see your hair fall on your contour is amazing,
And the radiant glow and shimmering of your skin.
You are the most beautiful flower in heaven’s garden;
Even in their vastness, unknown galaxies
whisper to one another jealousies as they behold your beauty.But what can I give?
What can I give to an angel who spread her white wings and embraced me?
Who with tears in her eyes reached down and rescued me?
We cried together that night,
And while she held me I started to write our story;
The title: That Night I Witnessed an Angel In All Her Glory
The debt that I owe is worth so much more than diamonds and jewelry.
My love, I have given you my heart but what more can I render?
I kissed her and whispered, To your love my angel, forever I surrender.
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Sorrowful tears drop on flowers. Eyes cry over what was and what is no longer.
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In its inception it could be based on hearsay or misguided perception.
As a tiny seed it is watered and nurtured and soon becomes a deep rooted tree
bearing the fruits of malcontent, violence, superstition and ill intent.
The poisonous fruit invades the bloodstream with sinister efficiency, mercilessly infecting its host.
The virulence of its effect is evident in the pupils of the eyes.
It can lie dormant for many years, sometimes revealing itself
in the form of vengeful words and angry tears.
The sweetness of the fruit masks its bitterness in the stomach.
It is not well digested;
With the absorption of poison, the heart and organs become infested.
Inside, the spirit writhes, withers, and groans as the infection takes its toll.
A shake of the hand is manifested and a deceptive smile,
For it is behind the glare of darkened eyes that the secrecy of hatred lies. -
The tears that run in silent pain
Are dried and then they run again.
For long the flood of tears are held;
They suffer in a quiet hell.The dam it breaks when tears are filled.
The blood it runs when it breaks the will.
The darkness calls on winter nights;
Through darkened eyes they seek the light.The light is sought but still it’s dark.
If we should fall, tell the world we fought
A valiant fight with all our might;
Our flag in cold wind through the darkest night. -
You are my peace.
You are my release.
In fields of lilacs and white gardenias I dreamt of you;
The angels adorned you in the finest silks of purple, white, and blue.When your hair falls it is like a vast waterfall;
You overflow with passion and love.
The angels whisper in envy of your beauty.
A thousand love poems could never fully capture what you mean to me.Am I a mortal man in the presence of an angel?
Your voice flows like many rivers and I am calmed.
You found me wounded and you helped me;
You are my love and my balm.Let us forget the world and in intimate communion dine;
I have turned my back on the world because you are mine.
Your soft glistening skin is akin to nothing I can imagine;
Your hair down and adorned in your silk black robe, you stand as a goddess.My love, I am lost in your tender caress.
I lie next to you and still I tell you I miss you.
With passionate fire in my eyes I draw you close and kiss you.
Even without words spoken it is through my heart that I tell you I love you.
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In the lonely hours, your memory haunts me beautifully.
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The undertaker’s gloves touch what was once hopeful and full of life.
He lies there, eyes open, but they see not and he is not.
The sterility of cold skin against cold metal is like a thousand winters.
The time for contemplation has ceased;
He lies; Still, he lies.
The darkness behind the eyes is like the ink of a black pen
Burst open into two round spaces of translucency and left to settle.
The discoloration of his nonexistence
is not found in the beauty of any rainbow.
The body has given up the ghost,
But does the ghost know it has left its shell?
The undertaker’s experienced hands will be
The last semblance of care given to him.
He does not know, for he is not present in the body.
They will cry over him;
they will shower him with flowers, but he will not know.
When he was here he counted the days and the hours but they did not show.
Yet they now stand there, teary eyes with a glare.
That they would throw dirt on him and walk away
Without even the remembrance of a genuine memory is blasphemy.
The undertaker takes it all in, for he has seen it many times before.
In the interim between life and death he contemplates his own mortality.
The living go on, and the dead are mourned;
The solemn faced undertaker, the last recorder of them that breath no longer.
His last job is done for the night; he turns off the lights
And says goodnight to his silent residents whose souls have taken flight.
Intimate Compositions 