At night
You were my angel of light.
Our love had grown wings
And had taken flight.
In the morning,
I awakened to longing.
Tag: Poetry
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Walls witness tears in dark rooms.
Debilitating illness drains strength
And leaves one listless and withered.
The venom of fear infiltrates bloodstream
And relentlessly infuses itself.
Movements are slow and measured.
Lethargy renders the once youthful
Spirit to ashes and dust;
The chaos of the mind is manifested.
War rages behind bloodshot eyes.
Days of the week are forgotten
And become useless and irrelevant.
The sun is not felt or seen for months.
Time is measured in moments of reprieve.
The toxicity of it is potent, and unforgiving.
Pain is purged through tears and loud cries.
Thoughts of existence are contemplated
And weighed in the balance. -
Sadness is left behind,
And fear and anger dissipate;
Acceptance has taken over
As they calmly await their fate. -
In dark and isolated places
Where suffering is endured,
Tears of sorrow are not seen,
And whimpers of agony are not heard. -
At 2 A.M. she does her dance,
Her eyes of sorrow hidden by euphoric trance.
She does her best to entertain the crowd;
Wide eyes they glare, and the shouts are loud;
Her fluid movements cause money to rain,
For the dirty bills are her source of gain.
It’s behind the eyes, oh those weary eyes,
Where her soul seeks warmth, and her spirit cries.
Her passion is singing; her passion is life;
Still she walks in heels on a winter’s night,
To make a living the only way she has known,
For the long dark road has become her home.
She is mentally afflicted, because she is a victim
Of abuse in her childhood, when pain was inflicted.
Her tears are the tears of an angel …
She longs for understanding; she longs for light;
For a heavenly shelter from the cold of night.
As she strips her clothes, pain strips her soul;
Only the familiar eyes of her sorrow would know.
She is an angel. A beautiful woman.
At 2 A.M. she is still a woman. -
The fires of fear rage against me. I will look to the mountains and valley streams for peace and reprieve. I will call on your name in the evening while walking through vast fields of cherry blossom trees. Let the starlight bear witness to the peace that overcomes my countenance; let the moon and the stars see the love in my heart that pours out for you. My love, kiss me deeply and tell me a story of two lovers who lived a dream and died in each others arms. I will sing a new song to you in a whispering tone while you are asleep, and run my fingers gently through your long hair. Darling, your countenance is that of an angel. Let us sleep in lush open fields so that the moonlight can illuminate your beautiful face. Let the night’s sky look down upon us and be envious of our love. You are my heart. You are my life. Your femininity has captured me for perpetuity. The way you draw me close to you with hands soft as silk; the way you softly kiss me as if I were in an eternal dream. The scent of your freshly washed hair and the scent of your perfume captures the essence of you. The color of your lipstick is in beautiful contrast with the tone of your skin. Your earrings and necklace set you in elegant array. My weary head resting in your bosom is a comfort that could never be described. I listen to your heartbeat and fall asleep as if I were a child. Close to your heart is were I will always be. You are my heart and I am yours. We are no longer two, but have become one. In the midst of my darkness, you are the moon, stars, and the sun.
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Dried teardrops are invisible. The heaviness of sorrow lingers. Agony of unrealized dreams are consumed by the darkness. Remnants of pain are left on a razor’s edge. Angels weep.
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Misery has found me and the dark place relentlessly calls for me. I can hear the weeping of the sorrowful; the unceasing bellowing of the tormented is unbearable, and renders me despondent. The woman in the black veil stares at me and sees my distress. With a haunting wail she disappears into the darkness; the train of her black dress follows behind her. My soul burns with anguish within me. I have called to the heavens with tears but have heard no answer; my only comfort is the memory of my mother. The desolation wears on me, and the abyss pulls me closer to the ground. I have stood strong for many seasons, but the years have quietly stolen my youthful strength. The putrid smoke of the abyss is offensive and it scorches my eyes. I stumble around in darkness wanting to cry out but I will not give the dark place any more of my tears. Within me, hope wanes and despair has taken up residence. Only the fire of anger keeps my feet steady on the long and dark road. Sorrow increases day by day, and the poisonous fruit of trepidation is eaten by many. Is there any rest for the weary? So many tired and ghostly faces pass by me as I look into their eyes intently. Suffering has been our portion, and unrelenting pain our heavy cross to bear. Who will witness our plight and record the days of our lives? Maybe the heavens will open, and finally hear the agony in my cries.
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Although our passion
Has faded away,
And sorrow wounds
Me night and day,
I will still say,
I love you. -
The woman in the black veil still weeps. The earth is saturated with her tears, and quakes in anger and sorrow. The sounds of her weeping and wailing pierces the very soul, and gives way to emotional waves of sadness. Only the tormented and afflicted know her pain. She walks among the shadows at night; her long black dress adorned with lace, drags on the ground behind her. Her black veil conceals her face. The children of the night and the afflicted know her name; she calls to them in a haunting voice and they come. They slowly approach with faces of sadness and watery eyes of pain; she wipes the tears from their eyes through black satin gloves. In silence, they congregate around her in a circle and stretch forth their hands to touch her; in each ear she faintly whispers the name of the child she lost, and to the afflicted she gives a sorrowful kiss. One by one they slowly depart, and fade into the darkness. The memory of her lost child is sealed within her. With a loud voice, she screams the name of her dead beloved repetitively—then silence. The darkness knows her name and is consumed with her anguish. The abyss is stirred.
Intimate Compositions 