Pleasing you is my greatest pleasure.
You are the most precious treasure.
Never leave me.
Stay with me forever.
Tag: Poetry
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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.
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Our forewords are inscribed in blood. Chapters of anguish are effortlessly written. Pens of fire highlight the darkness that can’t be seen by the naked eye. Our records of torment and suffering and pain are intricately layered as the pages are turned. Footnotes take hold of the reader and guide with harrowing precision. See where we walked in laborious breaths clutching tight our heavy crosses; hear the incessant wailing of those who hope for more and want to live, but for so long have only existed but yet endure. Witness the pungent scent of hopelessness, despair, and misery. Read with focused intent, not fast; feel the texture of the paper and turn the pages slowly. With every letter and with every word step into rugged boots and hard worn shoes; take the journey. Stretch your arms North, for Polaris is still the star of our or salvation; we are sufferers in blood and in bonds, we send heaven our voice letters and ask for the angels to break our fetters. Some pages may be blank but tears that fall on paper narrate the chapter. The downtrodden, the anguished, the mute, the outcast and long languished are given voice through the pages to record and tell of their devastation and long sadness; diligently search the index and reread certain passages to gain more insight and to interpret the book in its fullness. Run your hands over the leather binding and admire the gold leaf engraving but be mindful to retain poignant paragraphs that are well worth retaining. We cry out between the lines. Our final chapters are yet to be written.
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In your arms for days I wept, and kissed you softly as you slept.
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I feel you
I need you
I breathe you
I love you. -
My cross is heavy. Tired, I drag it slowly; navigating hidden paths to avoid those that may try to hurt me. In the darkness of the night with blood and heavy sweat I stumble and fall on one knee. Splinters of weathered wood tear into me. My cross is heavy but it is mine to carry; looking back with tears in the wind I see, and hear the moans and cries of those just like me. In droves we walk slowly, and carry on in pain; blood drips on snow, dirt, grass, concrete and open road, and is washed away by rain. Bloodshot eyes are teary and filled with rage. In the book of tears with millions of chapters and soiled with blood, I angrily write another page.
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The eyes that hide the hell inside
Are with disdain just cast aside,
For deep inside it thus abides
And causes fear and sudden cries.For people look and wide they stare.
The worst of them with hating glare.
If long enough in the eyes they look,
It is then with shock they see the tearful book. -
If I could, I would turn your tears into diamonds;
I will take shelter in the memories of our warmth,
Hoping that precious love again will find us.
Intimate Compositions 