In a short silk white robe tortured beauty lies listless on a French daybed. Strewn empty wine bottles and scattered pills linger on the floor. A picture of her smiling brightly with her parents atop of the fireplace sits in its frame. In her pain she looks up and remembers the days of her joy; she stretches forth her arm toward the photo as if reaching for a piece of heaven. In her listlessness she is paralyzed; tears run and fall from long lashes, flawless makeup and beautiful eyes.
Tag: Writing
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… And on that night she danced with death, but never felt so alive.
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In that place that wretched place where men weep in agony; where loud cries are let out and the sincerest of tears are shed. Where pain is unceasing and reprieve is sought night and day; where one’s eyes grow accustomed to the darkness; the cold dampness; the desolation. Where the soul is stripped to the bare bones and even deep down into the marrow. Where arms stretch forth for light in vivid dreams but awaken once more to the darkness; where time is useless and irrelevant and despair slowly stifles. Where tired feet stumble and weary eyes can cry no more.
They wait and gather for an awakening. They wait and gather in a sudden falling of silence. They wait and gather for the light that will come. Together they wait.
Salvation.
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You are strong.
You are loved. -
In my suffering I have found my strength.
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With tears in her eyes she dusts off her old satin ballet slippers.
In darkness she gracefully dances once more;
Pointed toes grace finely polished wooden floors.She is not broken;
She is not too old;
She is not cast away.If she had danced in front of an audience they would have cried.
She composes a wonderful poem with her movements;
Her ballad is beautiful; my god, it’s beautiful.In silence, only her movements can be heard;
She dances to the song in her heart.
Fluid movement; She flows … she is a river.The twinkling stars give thunderous applause.
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In the winter you hurt me deeply, but it was in the summer that I wept.
The high potency of passion mixed with anguish is a painful purge.
The process is slow and deliberate; it cannot be rushed.
Lingering essence of you stalks and torments.
In the lonely hours I drink the cup of sweet reminisce; Intoxication is immediate.
In a lover’s cafe a sad pianist plays the keys of a Steinway beautifully.Memories of love and endless ecstasy while tears fall is beautiful melancholy.
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In my darkness and through crying eyes, I still see you.
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I remember the words you spoke to me;
Many nights you cried.
The pain of your weeping vividly echoes.
Your smile and laughter I also reminisce.
You were everything to me; Still you are.
If I could, I would collect your teardrops
And turn them into diamonds.
Your blood runs in me grandmother,
For you were both mother and father.
There are some things I must tell you.
In your last agonies you told me I was a good son;
I turned my head; tears streamed.
A woman of love; of generosity.
A beautiful angel you are, Constancia.My abuela Constancia,
In my mind you ride on golden chariots
Drawn by one thousand Arabian horses;
Your Adornment in white is the fabric of the gods.
The rarest of diamonds grace your neck,
Earlobes and wrists.I love you.
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I am wounded by love;
Still, I would die for you.
Intimate Compositions 