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.
Tag: Thoughts
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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.
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Heaven’s light,
Shine down on the children
Of the night;
See their pain;
See their hunger;
Know their plight.
Bless them;
Love them;
Adorn them
In garments of white.
Hear the longing
in their cries;
Comfort them;
Forever wipe the
Tears from their eyes. -
The billows of peril blow;
The smoke of never ending agony
Is involuntarily inhaled,
And enters the bloodstream;
The torturous moments
Are replayed over and over.
The body tries to rid itself of the invasion,
But once it starts, it cannot be stopped;
It must run its course.
It is difficult to remain calm as panic ensues.
Descent into the abyss seems imminent;
The darkness is frightful and consuming.
Afflicted souls cry out
And reach for a place of light;
Hyper-vigilant eyes scan corners
In the darkness of night.
The pulse rate increases
And the heart palpitates.
The cries of the sorrowful
and the afflicted are seldom heard;
The dividing line between sanity
And insanity is easily blurred.
Windows to the soul are bloodshot
And clouded with tears;
The emaciated appearance
Is the result of the hardship of the years.
Curiosity of passersby cause them to look
Deep into the eyes;
The suffering of the soul is seen;
They quickly look away in horror—
And many cry upon witnessing
The utter desolation and ruin of that dark place.
Tired Souls listlessly huddle together in pitch darkness,
And together await the dawning of the sun;
So that heaven can hear their plea,
In unison they continuously hum. -
See me;
See me for who I am.
In my passion, see my desire;
In my weeping, see my pain:
In my warmth, see my love;
In my agony, see my affliction.
Intimate Compositions 