In the final act, illness is unveiled in its true ugliness, raw hideousness, and utter mercilessness; when blood flows from open veins and the eyes from behind which it lies, are bloodshot and teary from torment and unceasing cries.
Tag: poem
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With whispers of sweet nothings
Lovers undressed her body,
But could never undress her soul.
The depths of her; her very essence,
They would never know. -
In love’s perpetuity we have found immortality.
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In the chill of fall winds, a child’s tears fall against cold skin.
Though he waited for hours for his father, he did not show, once again.
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Forever loved, she rests in their hearts eternally.
In death, she is resurrected through loving thoughts and precious memories.
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With tears, heavy hearts and labored breaths
They live somewhere in-between life and death. -
If tears should fall from my eyes when I look at you it is because I love you
If you should wake up to bouquets of burgundy roses it is because I adore you
If I should say Please don’t go, it is because I can’t live without you
If I should suddenly hold and kiss you it is because I’m drawn to you
If I should reach for you in my dreams it is because I need you
If I should tell you that you are my angel, know that my words are true.
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With feigned etiquette they appear to be delicate
But behind pleasantries they hide heinous inequities;
Vile words are masked by counterfeit smiles and insincere niceties.
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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.
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The tormented wail.
Heavy tears of agony
Fall beneath the black veil.
The dead is carried
By horse and carriage.
A trail of sorrow follows
Behind in silent march.
The dark crow watches
From a distant perch.
Bitter cold wears
On the frailty of the old;
Their steps are slow,
And measured.
The hard frozen earth awaits.
As the lowering begins,
Red roses are thrown
From frail hands
With black gloves.
Freezing winds blow;
With tears and a final stare,
Cold and ashen faces
Slowly disappear.
Intimate Compositions 