In adoration I look upon your beauty.
I touch you and heaven touches me.
I am infused with love,
But do I confuse love with lust? No;
I know, because in silent reflection
My heart whispers to me … Love, love, love.
I am yet resurrected in the tenderness of your voice;
It is in knowing that you love me
Is why I have cause to rejoice.
It is you that I call on;
It is you who has rescued me from the storm.
My tears fall but I am not betrayed,
For the falling of my tears is not pain but joy displayed.
My burgundy rose; my morning dew;
Be my deep river of passion,
And let me immerse myself in you.
Let me taste of the sweetness of life.
In your glory you stand without a ring,
Yet from the start you were my wife.
Yet from the start you were my life.
Tag: Writing
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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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Beyond vague words that render nothing.
Surpassing all that is shallow and meaningless.
Leaving behind the superficial and insubstantial.
Cleaving to the essential and the perpetual.
Pouring out the essence of the soul
And bearing in raw reality what is and what is hoped for.
Giving of one’s self in fearless devotion.
The coming together of the deeply hurt and scarred
Who find each other in sacred destiny;
The light that is in us that heals all pain with a kiss.
Before you go to sleep my love, allow me to tell you this:I love you.
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In ethereal dreams I await you my angel.
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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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Between life and death
Between labored breaths
Between purgatory and hell
Between the haunting rings of the final bell
Between heaven and the abyss
Between agony and bliss
Between the fog and a dark mist
They are there, unseen,
But they do exist. -
Though I resist I am enthralled with your beauty,
Your femininity, and the way you move gracefully;
But you belong to another,
And daily by my own heart I am slain viciously.
My dreams of kissing you are both torment and fantasy.
You are a precious stone, a diamond, namely.
I have fallen in love with you;
In your presence do my eyes betray me? -
1:17 A.M. Elmira, New York
Early winter.Rachel’s Story
It’s cold in her room. Rachel lies still under a worn comforter on a twin sized bed covered with flannel sheets. She’s tired, but can’t sleep. Lately, she’s been plagued by long bouts of insomnia. Her thoughts won’t slow down; she ruminates about the doctor’s appointment she missed the day before. It was important, and now she’ll likely have to wait another two weeks before she can be seen again. The nausea has gotten increasingly worse and she hasn’t eaten anything for the last eighteen hours. Her mother called earlier but she didn’t feel like talking to her. Since the diagnosis last year, she’s been reclusive and standoffish, even with her mother and her two siblings who she’s been close with all of her life.
She’s always been fit, but now she looks somewhat thin and malnourished. The illness has taken its toll. Her appetite is diminished and the prescribed medication aggravates her nausea, leading to vomiting. Just two years ago she was engaged to be married; he left shortly after her diagnosis. She still loves him despite of his transgressions and betrayal. She called him some time in the past three weeks but his number has been disconnected. Almost time for her to take the next scheduled dose of medicine. Only five Valiums left before the bottle is empty. It’s early winter, but temperatures have been colder than usual for this period of the season. She warms some soup on the stove. While that’s being heated, she takes a 10 mg dosage of Valium.
The soup is ready now, but she only eats two spoonfuls and three saltine crackers. She hopes the nausea will go away soon. Back in bed under the warmth of the comforter she retires; she hopes she can get at least two to three hours of sleep. 2:36 A.M.
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Daily, he fights to tame the beast that is within.
Everywhere he goes it doggedly stalks him.
He fights the beast with vicious resilience,
And is deeply wounded, but still he hopes to win.
It patiently lies in wait hoping to overtake him.
The dark wolf sits at the door wanting to be let in …
In feral anxiousness he howls waiting to be let in.
Intimate Compositions 