to go into that light
oh that holy light;
he walks among
headstones at night,
oh those starry nights;
the ghost of her reaches his aura
oh his loving aura,
the scent is familiar
it is so familiar —
she would bathe and lather
in the aroma of jasmine
and hyacinth water;
her favorite color was lavender,
she rests with lavender roses
that grow beside her;
they sprawl and cover her,
roses gently cover her —
the one who eternally loves her
longingly weeps for her,
he kneels and longingly weeps for her;
he can hear her loving whispers
with so much love she whispers;
she says, I am yours forever,
with everything within her
she says, I am yours forever;
he kisses her headstone
and lies upon the flowers;
tearfully he lies upon the lavender flowers —
he truly loves her,
with everything within him
he truly loves her
Tag: Sorrow
-
-
Stillness settles; the weeping soul finds solace. Release comes; rivers of sorrow overflow, forming streams of emotions that only weeping angels know. The weary spirit finds rest in a place where hyacinth and lavender winds blow. Mysteries are revealed. The last loving whispers of infinite souls are unsealed. Aura is replenished in meditative essence. In a quiet room a powerful rebirth takes place with only the walls to bear witness. What is written is akin to divine poet laureates collaborating to diligently craft every sentence. In the stillness, the divine feminine begins again in beautiful nakedness. To truly love her, is to embrace her with a pure heart and dry her tears with a thousand passionate kisses.
-
So many tears fall from their eyes. With no wings to fly, they keep falling from the skies. The silent walls witnessed their last cries.
-
The hands in black satin gloves glide across the smooth surface of what holds the lifeless. Her husband kneels beside her casket, giving her a final kiss. There is weeping in the great hall. It is cold, and outside rain falls. Silver haired women adorning black veils conceal gold crucifix necklaces beneath black shawls. Old men who have survived many years of deep sorrow sit stoically in the back rows. Tears stream as cold rain turns into snow. There are variations of flowers in many different colors, but the lifeless does not know. Six strapping men stand in position to lift her again. After hoisting, they walk slowly in tandem; each one of them wearing gloves of black satin. Rose petals fall gently on snow as if the roses themselves shed tears in mourning. Winter winds carry the sounds of sorrow. A sea of black is the procession that follows. Black clothes contrast against white snow as if the pitch darkness of night was invading the brightness of daylight. Elder men lean on vintage brass handle walking canes at the grave site. Widowers comfort each other as they gather. Though usually stoic—still, they cry for her. She was a beautiful wife and mother they whisper. At the moment of the lowering, her husband falls to his knees; weeping, he reaches for her. She was immensely loved. She no longer lives, yet still, she does.
-
There is nothing left but the reserved resoluteness of the untouched depths when unending torment is expressed through anguished breaths of the insomniac who flirts with the seducing whispers of death. Oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God—pray for us all, for we are tearful as we continuously fall. Winter is here now, and the trees are stripped of their leaves. Mercy is no more, for the afflicted struggle to breathe. There is a dreadful recompense that will cause all oppressors to cry out in excruciating pain as they are brought to their knees. The anguished no longer ask for understanding, for the depths of them have already been revealed.
-
The underneath whispers to me incessantly with sweet promises of eternal peace. It says, The flesh is fragile and temporary; all you have to do is close your eyes and release. It comes to me in my vulnerability saying softly, Victor, I know that you are tired and that you unceasingly weep; I am the underneath — in me you will find the comfort of deep sleep. The body is still, still, storms rage beneath linen sheets. Darkness hides sorrowful eyes that weep. There is no more warmth after the heart ceases to beat. Many faces smile, but a deep and draining torment lies underneath. At the lowering, hypocrites throw roses and weep after writing bullshit carbon copy eulogies for the deceased. From foul breath and diseased teeth they utter generic garbage like, He’s now in a place of peace. On the dime of the deceased they consume alcoholic drinks, and gluttonous pigs do eat. The underneath embraces its permanent residents over six feet deep. The whispers of it still echo, urging the living despondent to finally let go.
-
With sweet whispers the darkness beckons me, methodically appealing to the deep sorrow of my tragedy. It says, I can take away the pain if you allow me. I embrace the bitter taste of misery to deaden the unforgiving sting of its potency. I now live in my own, but I was born of my mother’s agony. Resentment is the blood of my family, so I do not forgive easily. Through vengeful eyes I see my enemies. I dream no more of love — my nightmare resumes when I awaken; sitting on the edge of my bed I gaze aimlessly at nothing, and I am reminded that I am a man forsaken. Oh, heavenly father, look at what torment has taken. It seeks to utterly decimate me and leave me irreparably broken. I have become an apostate of love’s religion. In my state of affliction I have come to questions my past decisions. The man in the mirror swears at me under his breath; I stare at him for several minutes contemplating the depth of his sentiment. I scream like a madman within four walls to purge at least a small portion of the pain. Tiring myself out, I sit drenched in perspiration with tempered melancholy, and I am tranquil again.
-
Perpetual dark rain masks the tears of my unending pain; there is no distinction when tears fall in a storm. Incessant sorrow is the numbness of my soul. I used to crave warmth, but I have adapted to bitter cold. I am shattered over and over again; the dams of my eyes fill with the tears of my heart. I am silent and still in my weeping before the bellowing of my anguish starts. I seek understanding no more, nor do I reach for love in its purest form. Life will be what it will be. I am a castaway, shipwrecked on unmerciful seas. I did not know that I was so deeply wounded until I saw my own blood on the leaves. The tightness of the chest and shortness of breath feels like slow imminent death. There is no fucking redemption in constant torment. If hell is my portion then in hell I will walk. I do not give a fuck about societal norms or their prejudice thoughts. The decadence of their sentiments have bloated them — they are greedy pigs with foul breath at the trough. The weight of their iniquities have crush their knees; on their bellies they crawl. Still, in unending storms tears fall. To protect myself from further pain, around my heart I build an impenetrable wall. In the dystopia of my soul I am stranded, left desolate. The beauty of past intimacy seems like a lifetime away. After early morning sensuality, from work, she would call to tell me that she was still throbbing, further inciting my intimate passion. Regretfully, I never showed her the sorrowful depths of me, afraid to show the vastness of my pain. Sorrow is now synonymous with my name — my unseen tears washed away by dark eternal rain.
-
I cry, not because of regret or the woman that left, but I shed tears for love itself, for it never had a chance to grow because the soil of its young roots became infertile — dying in its infancy, it withered slowly and painfully, and though I nurtured love as a mother cradling her newborn baby, I could not save it — so I gave love one last kiss in its place of final rest and wept over my loss for weeks until the tears could flow no more from listlessness, insensibility and lack of sleep.
-
I sought understanding, but I found none. I sought love with many tears, but it came with conditions. I craved the healing depths of affection, but rejection was my portion. I tried to hide the sorrow in my eyes, but my attempts were futile. My existence has consisted of tribulations and many trials. I have walked in the depths of that valley were death shadowed me constantly without mercy. I have unknowingly sat in the company of those who have tried to hurt me. The blood that runs within me is that of a vindictive family. I have seen the ugliness of internal strife all of my life. I have been called upon by people that I love to choose sides. In dark quiet rooms I have incessantly cried. I lost a part of myself when my mother died. I have not exceptionally achieved, though I’ve tried. I have not distinguished myself in my own critical eyes. What is most invaluable to me is peace of mind. I breathe, but still I feel buried alive. I see, but I stumble constantly as if I am blind. I eat, but I am never satisfied. I sleep, but I’m still doggedly tired. The ecstasy of intimacy is one of the few things that makes me feel alive. I seek warmth to prevent myself from becoming utterly cold inside. I seek an ethereal transcendence, but maybe it will come in time.
Intimate Compositions 