Shirley Horn – Summer (Estaté)
Tag: Feelings
-
There must be no safe space for them;
they must not be allowed to strike again.
They must be burned in the fire of the pain of their victims,
and have their ashes taken away by the wind.
History must only mention them in the context of, Never Again.
They must be condemned, and the womb they were conceived in.
They must be forced from their secret places in the darkness of the early morning,
and be left as sustenance for ravens, before the appearance of the red sky of the evening.
They must experience one thousand times fold, the torment of their victims;
left to contemplate their fate, shaken, by the sounds of their own breathing.
They will not be mourned in their leaving;
no beautiful floral arrangements;
no carriages with black horses, with blinders waiting;
no tears of elderly women, with silk gloves in black veils grieving.
In their final moments, the terror of their destruction will be upon them. -
Marvin Gaye – Just To Keep You Satisfied
-
She stands there, heartbroken,
but with resolve to move on and flourish again.
In silent reflection, her heart calls to heaven
for a true love to send.
She had forgotten to love herself,
so to herself she made amends,
promising to never neglect her heart again.
Until she finds him,
she will be restored in the light of healing in the interim.
Like flowers in spring with vibrant colors blooming—
The beauty of her being is stunning;
in her cogitation, she has found
that she was created in divine perfection,
and her faults make her human.
She will love again.
She is determined. -
She is a purple hibiscus, radiant in her beauty and basking in her glory;
the morning dew is her crown, nurturing her through the warmth of the sun.
The wind blows against her, and her petals are lifted up like a spinning ballerina.
Love, is the rich soil in which she is firmly anchored.
In the celestial display of her colors, she is wondrous.
The aura of her, something ethereal—like angelic whispers. -
After the storm
She is still;
Her heart is calm. -
The sorrowful heart, is the pen that writes
anguished paragraphs and chapters of torment.
The author’s bio is a summary of years of lament.
The foreword is written in blood;
the book is dedicated to the withered soul’s remnants.
The eyes of the reader widens, as the first chapter begins.
Tears are shed, and anguished screams are heard, as the final chapter ends. -
You speak to me through abbreviations of the heart:
a light kiss; the brush of your hand against my wrist;
the way you gaze at me when you take your hair down;
your loving whispers to me when I’m down.
Confessions of the heart don’t have to be long —
in short form, I understand.
Through the falling of my joyous tears,
I tell you I love you, again and again. -
Witness the depths of his agony; hear his weeping.
See him immersed in the throes of his suffering.
Feel the warmth, that he so desperately wished could comfort him.
Touch the tears that fell on his torn adornments.
Write down the utterances that he conveyed in listless moments.
See the illegibility of his handwriting in his last moments,
because he hadn’t slept in days — and was so tired.
Hear him speak of his plight, and how hard he had tried.
Take notice of the dark curtains in the cold room he cried.
Read the torment of the unfinished notes he wrote —
strewn on the bed where he lied.
Witness the gradual stillness of his body
and the stark motionlessness of his eyes.
Hear the piercing screams later that night,
and the constant whispers of why.
See the favorite picture he left on the dresser, of happier times.
Feel the cold raindrops, as he is carried outside.
Speak to the ones who really loved him,
and hear the echoing of his pain in their cries.
See the black veils, and feel the chill of the winds that wail
at the place where he lies.
Intimate Compositions 