In purgatory we are suspended.
Anguished screams are the byproduct
When the spirit is wilted.
Epitaphs are written and rewritten
With each changing season.
The anxious and depressed are listless;
There is no room for anything else.
Constant torment of the soul causes scarring.
She is beautiful on the outside,
But on in the inside she’s dying.
When the dead are gone they leave behind the living,
But the living are not living.
In the darkness cries are heard,
And the stark truth of finality is contemplated.
Day after day agony is compounded,
And there is no room to breathe;
We flood ourselves in the tears of heavy weeping,
But there is no reprieve.
With laborious breaths we make an existence;
The delicate shell of us craving a life of substance.
Once filled with life, we drag the carcass
Of yesteryear behind us, hoping for a resurrection,
Or some type of rejuvenation to bring life back into our eyes.
The preacher preaches a fiery sermon
And tells us to look to the skies,
But we have prayed and prayed again, and we are tired.
The world turns its face from the frightful imagery of our reality;
We are mannequins they dress up and pretend not to see;
Still, we are flowers in winter
Waiting for spring to bloom in all our glory.
In giant books of gold bound with the blood of our pain,
The gods, they record our lives, and write our story.
Tag: Blogging
-
-
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.
-
Between life and death
Between labored breaths
Between purgatory and hell
Between the haunting rings of the final bell
Between heaven and the abyss
Between agony and bliss
Between the fog and a dark mist
They are there, unseen,
But they do exist. -
Loose Ends – Love Controversy, Pt. 1
-
We survive, but we have yet to live. Drained of blood and tears we wearily march with valiant hearts through the darkest night by lamplight, holding high our banners of war with nothing left to give.
-
Gorgeous pearls and rare diamonds adorn her.
A beautiful angel she is, and they adore her;
She is ravishing and wondrously alluring.
Aesthetically unmatched her recipe is prepossessing.
A goddess among women and incomparably charming,
But behind seductive hazel eyes lies desolation and decay;
Her mask is worn and starts to disintegrate day after day.
They love her in her glory but secretly despise her.
In dark corners they devise plans to destroy and ruin in utter.
She is a beautiful roe unaware of the hunter’s bow;
If they would know her humanness and deep sorrow;
If they were aware that at night at walls she stares;
If they would only see her pleasantries and genuine sympathies,
But they are poisoned by long held jealousies and secretive envy.
To know her, is to know longing for genuine love.
To be in her company is to see kindness and generosity.
To look into her eyes is to see a loving woman in despair;
In her sterility she desires fertility, to one day have a family;
And she ponders the duality of life and finality.
Lonely, she slips into her royal blue silk nightgown.
Another arduous night has come;
Precious tears stream as in darkness she softly lies down.
-
The decadence of man consumes them in their own greed. Even with full stomachs they vigorously and ferociously feed. In the shadows they grunt with bits of rare meat stuck in their teeth. Bloated, they laugh heartily without guilty conscience. Gluttonous in their frenzied state they are blinded by self-indulgence. Corruption of the soul renders even the young among them to appear old. Their faces contorted and excessively wrinkled with a ghost like appearance; their teeth serrated and discolored beyond belief; their gums black and resinous like pitch. Like pigs at the trough they are fattened, but their slaughter is of their own making; wicked minds devise illicit plans for unrepentant pillaging, and more and more taking. Conviction of the soul in non existent; endless tears and dried scattered carcasses are their remnant. Though they wash themselves again and again, the foul smelling stench is permanent. At the slightest sense of fear they scurry like rats to their enclaves and peek out of curtained windows with bulging eyes astonished with horror and panic; henchmen do their bidding in exchange for a piece of their ill gotten gains. Though immortality is sought, it cannot be bought; in futility they spend money endlessly seeking to never grow old; wanting to never die. Ignored are the pleas of the poor, and the children’s piercing cries. As time passes eventually the decadent and cold, grow old and sick. Writhing and emaciated in luxurious beds, and struggling to forever exist, it is in their last throes that they feel the sting of the devil’s whip.
-
Afflicted and anguished voices cry out in darkness
Tears and ceaseless sorrow are the torment of illness
The tired and exhausted desire peace and stillness
It is unrelenting with unforgiving torment and viciousness
In its approach it is particularly ruthless and merciless
Still they fight passionately and defiantly until their last breath. -
On warm summer nights
And winters dreary,
I think about you.
I love you;
I hope you
Hear me. -
Preparing for battle
And mounting up
To face my enemy,
He finally revealed
Himself to me;
In the mirror,
He mimicked my
Movements perfectly.
Intimate Compositions 