As the small
Yellow pills wear off
Thus begins his
Descent into hell.
Tag: Depression
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The last tear is shed. Wide eyes stare but see nothingness. Her makeup is perfect; her eyes, a beautiful shade of green. Lush long golden brown hair hangs off the back of a chair like a beautiful waterfall; a beautiful and solemn song plays in the background but she cannot hear it. The complexity of her, the potency of her love, her intricacies …
Hear their love for you in their weeping and the stories they tell of you. Hear them whisper your name in the twilight and in the darkness of night. Hear the songs sung about your many exploits, and about your wonderful spirit. You are indelible upon them; you are sealed upon their memory.
The beauty of you … my god, the beauty of you.
You live; you yet live.
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Dark stillness abounds but still restful sleep seems to evade.
Tears run on soft pillows; the agony of the dark early morning
inflicts even more anxiety than the night before. Light is sought
but dark curtains are drawn to shield the eyes from the pain of
slow adjustment. Weary eyes have become accustomed to
the darkness. The years of praying no longer suffice. An existence
is what is left … he wants to live again … he wants to touch the sky.The darkness plagues unmercifully and darkens dreams.
The suffering increases slowly year after year. The seasons come
and go, and he has forgotten his age. Turmoil is made manifest
in the frailty of his body. He remembers the comfort of his mother,
and yearns for her presence; to comfort himself he whispers
her favorite hymns. He’s become a vampire that wants embrace
the light again, but will the light accept him or confine him to
eternal darkness? He takes a shower to start the day. -
An old blind man sways as if in a trance as he plays the strings of the harpsichord. His skeletal frame like a thin pine tree in hurricane winds. Strands of thin grey hair swing from side to side; his frail hands show large discolored veins and expose protruding bone against thin skin. The iris and pupils of his eyes are cloudy white. His eyes transfixed. He plays the song of a story only he knows. The strings of the harpsichord haunt his memories and recall the days of sorrow and a love he once knew. He cannot cry because there are no tears left to be given. His torment are his memories; still he plays beautifully. The ghostly eyes of the dark crow watch from the shadows.
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The darkness scares
The darkness frights
He must learn to embrace the darkness,
And drown it in light. -
Because she wept in heavy rain they could never see her tears.
With nothing left to give she empties her deep wells of pain onto the street.
People unaware walk through the puddles of her sorrow. -
In anxious agony and incoherent words of an exhausted mind
In a state of isolation and loneliness that viciously consumes the spirit
On nights red eyes stare into mirrors with tears for lack of sleep
In unkempt rooms where chaos seemingly abounds and several
empty prescription bottles are strewn
In rooms where for many years illness and fear have festered,
and have consumed, and have metastasized.The walls have witnessed and concealed the deep secrets
They weep in silence for the trepidation of the sorrowful dweller.
After the screaming and torment, in a cluttered bed the afflicted briefly sleeps;Eyes on the wall in picture frames curiously stare.
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As I play the keys of my life, blood and tears drip on the piano. The notes on the music sheet become more intricate. I furiously and wildly continue to play trying to keep up. There is no audience or applause. The stage lights have been turned off. I play in darkness and can barely see the music sheet but for a dim light peering through the dark and heavy curtains. The sounds of the Steinway keys echo throughout the vast and empty auditorium.
At intermission I stare at empty seats.
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A raven follows me in my dreams. She watches with a keen eye. Her dark feathers make her impossible to be seen in the dark place. She has always been there, watching, observing. She has witnessed my deep suffering and she knows my plight. In the dark place, I stumble trying to find my way out. I cannot see my hands in front of my face. The raven’s piercing cries are my only signal. The dark place refuses to let me go; it is a parasite that feeds on me day and night. It renders me lethargic. It allows just enough life for an existence, but nothing more.
I am breathing but I have not lived in years. It slowly drains my life force as I crawl toward the cries of the raven. My movements are slow and my will almost non existent. The raven beckons me, but I don’t know where. I had seen a light here before in the distant past but the dark place has hidden it from me. What I would give for just a glimpse of that light, to see it at least once more.
. . . My thoughts consume me.
I crawl on to my unknown destination in the dark place. The raven flaps her wings ahead in the distance. Will I escape or am I resigned to my fate? The question I ask myself is almost rhetorical as the hope I once had is blown away like leaves in the wind. My blood boils as I think about the years of torment in this place. I will gather up my will for one last valiant try.
The raven senses my resolve.
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In a short silk white robe tortured beauty lies listless on a French daybed. Strewn empty wine bottles and scattered pills linger on the floor. A picture of her smiling brightly with her parents atop of the fireplace sits in its frame. In her pain she looks up and remembers the days of her joy; she stretches forth her arm toward the photo as if reaching for a piece of heaven. In her listlessness she is paralyzed; tears run and fall from long lashes, flawless makeup and beautiful eyes.
Intimate Compositions 