She dances to expel the pain,
her fingers moving in motion
through the air delicately.
Though her heart aches, she will not break;
There is a wondrous beauty
in her fragility.
Tag: Pain
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Shattered innocence becomes the blood of vengeance.
Ruthless utterances long to escape the long held silence.
The days of mercy wane for hidden monsters;
The infliction of pain at their hands, will never be forgotten.
They will stand in the congregation of their victims,
And give an accounting.
Gleeful hearts will savor the hour of their sentencing;
Justice will be immediate; there will be no pardon.
Pleas for leniency will fall on deaf ears,
Because of the walls that wept, the screams, the torment,
And the children’s tears. -
If I could, I would catch your tears in the wind
and hold them, and make your pain my pain,
willingly accepting your burdens;
And in my love for you, I will embrace them,
hoping in time the strength of my spirit will erase them;
But if all else fails, I will forever carry them,
kissing and holding you tearfully
thankful to see you smile again;
And at my end, I will be lifted up into the heavens,
and the deep scarring of my heart
will finally mend. -
Tears of torment drench heavy curtains.
The sorrowful wail to release the pain and stem the damage.
Agony is devastating, with no ending,
and is not remembered in its origins;
the stumbling of the listless and incoherent whispers,
pierce the stagnant silence at 4 AM.
The soul is stained with the dark dye of pain;
in a long drought of happiness, they pray for rain.
Too often, their signatures are incomplete letters
on white paper, soaked with bloodstains.
Epitaphs of the heart are written,
then rewritten, again and again.
Darkness refuses to leave;
With constant tightness of the chest
and in labored breaths, they breathe.
There is no understanding after abandonment —
so for themselves they grieve.
Desolation shatters utterly, leading to unceasing tears
that fall on worn rosaries.
Old men with grey beards
and elderly women with long silver hair,
weep for the young
who lie in boxes motionless,
in silent beauty.
Words of the anguished are spoken,
hoping that the angels will hear them.
Still, they pray for solace,
and a new awakening. -
The darkness encroaches and renders listless.
After the tears — come the desolate silence,
The shattering of the once vibrant soul,
And the scattered remnants. -
Beneath the facade, lies the darkness
that bubbles near the surface.
It hides behind gentle gestures
and overtures of kindness.
The potency of its viciousness
is well concealed in subtleness.
The metastasis of the heart and soul
is the unsightliness of its unfettered sickness.
If aware, one must be careful around it.
Only the discerning eye can see it.
Unveiled, it is horrific in its hideousness.
Released, it is vile in its actions,
and poisonous in its utterances.
Parasitical, it eventually renders its host —
a gaunt, discolored husk of flesh.
Men and women with grey hair
that know of its ills over the years,
make gestures with index fingers over lips,
lest the darkness hears;
the recollection of their time is when
the mercilessness of men — caused famine,
starvation, mass death, destruction,
and the cold winter wailing
of the children’s tears. -
On that day I bitterly wept,
Crying for you, before and after
You took your last breath.
Now as the winter approaches,
I look at your pictures
And hold you in my caress;
Sitting in cold darkness,
I kiss you, and whisper to you
In lovingness.
The agony of my soul
Is let out in wailing —
And with every breath.
Deep crimson rose petals fall
On sentimental pictures,
Coming to rest.
I am overcome with emotion.
I cry for you.
I cry for myself. -
They laugh in gluttonous euphoria
while the poor and disenfranchised
cry out in the purgatory of agony.
Their decadence is displayed
and celebrated unabashedly.
The scent of them, is the odor
of dried blood and bile on worn money.
They hide behind the red cloak of stature,
but they are fickle and cowardly.
With discolored teeth and diseased gums,
they speak falsehoods flawlessly,
from lying tongues.
To maintain preeminence
they would go to any lengths;
The suffering of the destitute is their strength.
From the upper crust, they offer crumbs
and foment division, laughing,
while concealing reprehensible intentions.
Even in death, they would not be worthy of mention.
They lack moral compass from their very inception.
The tools of their game are,
immorality, depravity, and deception.
The souls of them, are darkened and scarred
with the cirrhosis of wickedness.
From their bowels, come the sewerage
of vile and abhorrent utterances;
They are unscrupulous, and employ
slight of hand in their practices.
They are parasitical in nature,
slowly draining their vulnerable hosts unawares;
They secretly scoff at the deep pain of others,
shielding their hideous scowls
with insincere tears. -
The words she whispered linger in the place she wept. Clutching a picture of her parents, she contemplated for several minutes, drained, with nothing left. Her tears fell on the glass picture frame that she held in silent lament. In her last agony, she spoke softly, in faint breaths. Lying down in a white nightgown, she closed her tearful eyes, and slept.
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When I was a child, I thought if I stared at my mother’s pictures for hours and weep, I could bring her back from her eternal sleep. I joined the ranks of the motherless children who rode their bicycles in the night, in tears, with their mother’s memory still in them. An only child, I witnessed the pain in my grandmother’s eyes; the agony she carried from the loss of her children. She told me long held secrets before her transition; in my young body and receptive mind, I sat quietly and intently listened. Early in her marriage she had suffered a miscarriage, and through her life, she had endured tremendous damage. That evening I became a man; holding back my own tears, she knelt and wept, and let out all the pain of the years. I took my grandmother’s hand — and kissed her, and held her, and told her that she had become my mother, and that she was all I had, and that I loved her. In those moments nothing else in the world mattered; and on that night, oh that precious night, I swore an oath to myself in a small room under the heavens, that I would die to protect her, and stored that night in the depths of my soul, so I could always remember.
Intimate Compositions 