Farewell to what could have been;
Farewell to the voices within.
No black suits or black veils.
No trying to hold back tears after a deep inhale.
No wake or funeral rites
After a passing in the night;
No flowers or wreaths,
Or a gathering to weep.
No past stories or mention of prior glories.
No teardrops on varnished wood
With six metal handles.
No clutching of rosaries
And dishonest eulogies.
No viewings with quiet weeping,
as silk gloves gently brush over the body.
No solemn sermons
In-front of melancholic congregations.
No horse-drawn carriages
With black horses, wearing blinders
Waiting to carry glass caskets.
No pallbearers to carry the deceased.
No end of service crowds
That spill over into the streets;
No consumption of alcohol.
No sentiments of rest in peace.
No crying widows comforted by men
With ulterior motives under the guise
of helping her to live again;
No crocodile tears from estranged family
And disloyal friends.
Alive, they are mourned alive,
For it inside that the spirit dies.
Do you not see it in the eyes?
Do you not witness the desolation in their cries?
Hear their moaning in the early mornings,
The dim lamplight cast against the awning.
Who will pay their respects
And leave roses on weathered decks?
Who will mourn them?
Are they not deserved of tears?
Are they not deserved of flowers
In a beautiful array of colors
Weaved within neat and well made wreaths?
See them lying there in stillness,
Eyes closed and adorned in tattered garments.
Weep in solemn reflection
With inflections of misery within your lament.
A song is sung after the final bell is rung;
A song is sung after the final bell is rung.
Tag: Sorrow
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It is inside that they cry;
With broken wings,
Still they seek to fly. -
An old blind man sways as if in a trance as he plays the strings of the harpsichord. His skeletal frame like a thin pine tree in hurricane winds. Strands of thin grey hair swing from side to side; his frail hands show large discolored veins and expose protruding bone against thin skin. The iris and pupils of his eyes are cloudy white. His eyes transfixed. He plays the song of a story only he knows. The strings of the harpsichord haunt his memories and recall the days of sorrow and a love he once knew. He cannot cry because there are no tears left to be given. His torment are his memories; still he plays beautifully. The ghostly eyes of the dark crow watch from the shadows.
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Because she wept in heavy rain they could never see her tears.
With nothing left to give she empties her deep wells of pain onto the street.
People unaware walk through the puddles of her sorrow. -
Sadness is left behind,
And fear and anger dissipate;
Acceptance has taken over
As they calmly await their fate. -
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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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.
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“Jesus wept.” (John 11:35, KJV)
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As I cope with daily life and my own personal struggles and sorrow, I hearken back to what I consider the most poignant scene in the Bible. Now admittedly, I haven’t attended mass in several years, as I believe in total honesty and full disclosure.
The scene or time I am referring to, is when Jesus cries out and asks his Father why he abandons him in that particular hour. I hadn’t read the Bible in quite some time, and when I reread the passage in the book of Matthew, it moved me to tears. To think about abandonment in a time of immense pain and unthinkable suffering for the sins of the world, is something I could never fathom. I carry my own cross daily as we all do. It is heavy but I must carry it. I hope all of you are well, content, and joyous. Sending love to you all.
“Now from the sixth hour there was darkness over all the land unto the ninth hour. And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? that is to say, My God, my God, why has thou forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:45-46, KJV)
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The walk of the sufferer is slow and staggered. Every step taken with foreboding and trepidation. They are worn and emaciated in appearance, for they are haggard. The longing of their souls is like a never ending prayer sent up from darkest of the dark and desolate places. To count their stories is to see a sea of despondent faces. I have dreamed many dreams of tranquility, and of that oh so peaceful stream. I have contended with the darkness, and now know it intimately; it is not a friend of mine, for it seeks to destroy me. I have heard the loud cawing of the crow; I have seen the terrors of the night and the eyes that glow; it has fed on my misery and sorrow. It has fattened its belly with the essence of the lost souls that are now hollow. It has rendered men soulless vessels of bone, blood, and muscle. It has taken. It has devoured. The souls of men seek reprieve and comfort, but their portion has been akin to an eternal purgatory without the promise of heaven. The weight and heaviness of sorrow and sadness, crushes the spirit and turns it to fine dust. The darkness comes quickly and inhales the remnants with vile euphoria. Like vultures to putrid and rotten flesh, there is nothing left to denote what was, or what could have been, just nothingness and the foul smelling void intermingled with horror.
Intimate Compositions 