To reach her depths,
he displayed
devoted patience,
loving her with
every breath;
And on the ninetieth day
she released,
fell into arms,
and wept in his caress;
kissing him
with tears,
she accepted his love,
and gave
of herself.
Tag: Writing
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On that day I bitterly wept,
Crying for you, before and after
You took your last breath.
Now as the winter approaches,
I look at your pictures
And hold you in my caress;
Sitting in cold darkness,
I kiss you, and whisper to you
In lovingness.
The agony of my soul
Is let out in wailing —
And with every breath.
Deep crimson rose petals fall
On sentimental pictures,
Coming to rest.
I am overcome with emotion.
I cry for you.
I cry for myself. -
They laugh in gluttonous euphoria
while the poor and disenfranchised
cry out in the purgatory of agony.
Their decadence is displayed
and celebrated unabashedly.
The scent of them, is the odor
of dried blood and bile on worn money.
They hide behind the red cloak of stature,
but they are fickle and cowardly.
With discolored teeth and diseased gums,
they speak falsehoods flawlessly,
from lying tongues.
To maintain preeminence
they would go to any lengths;
The suffering of the destitute is their strength.
From the upper crust, they offer crumbs
and foment division, laughing,
while concealing reprehensible intentions.
Even in death, they would not be worthy of mention.
They lack moral compass from their very inception.
The tools of their game are,
immorality, depravity, and deception.
The souls of them, are darkened and scarred
with the cirrhosis of wickedness.
From their bowels, come the sewerage
of vile and abhorrent utterances;
They are unscrupulous, and employ
slight of hand in their practices.
They are parasitical in nature,
slowly draining their vulnerable hosts unawares;
They secretly scoff at the deep pain of others,
shielding their hideous scowls
with insincere tears. -
The vileness of their hearts are the foul utterances of their mouths
and the unbridled wickedness of their actions.
With every breath they are condemned,
and with every movement of the hand
the filth of their souls is revealed.
The pain they have inflicted on others for so many years
is now turned inward, as they rot from the inside out.
They will seek mercy but there will be none;
They will say, I have changed, and now see my error,
but no one will believe them.
They will offer gifts, prostrating themselves with tears,
but will be reviled and spat upon.
Their names will be bywords for mockery and excoriation.
They will not have a moment’s peace, or one second for reflection.
There will be no reprieve, even in their mourning.
In their dreams they will hear the voices of their victims,
decrying them, over and over again.
The torment of their purgatory will never end.
The path of their destruction will be remembered
even unto the fourth and fifth generations.
The stories of their mercilessness and unbridled treachery
will be passed down and never die.
-
The words she whispered linger in the place she wept. Clutching a picture of her parents, she contemplated for several minutes, drained, with nothing left. Her tears fell on the glass picture frame that she held in silent lament. In her last agony, she spoke softly, in faint breaths. Lying down in a white nightgown, she closed her tearful eyes, and slept.
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When I was a child, I thought if I stared at my mother’s pictures for hours and weep, I could bring her back from her eternal sleep. I joined the ranks of the motherless children who rode their bicycles in the night, in tears, with their mother’s memory still in them. An only child, I witnessed the pain in my grandmother’s eyes; the agony she carried from the loss of her children. She told me long held secrets before her transition; in my young body and receptive mind, I sat quietly and intently listened. Early in her marriage she had suffered a miscarriage, and through her life, she had endured tremendous damage. That evening I became a man; holding back my own tears, she knelt and wept, and let out all the pain of the years. I took my grandmother’s hand — and kissed her, and held her, and told her that she had become my mother, and that she was all I had, and that I loved her. In those moments nothing else in the world mattered; and on that night, oh that precious night, I swore an oath to myself in a small room under the heavens, that I would die to protect her, and stored that night in the depths of my soul, so I could always remember.
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When the tears come, I look for you in the in-between.
I immerse myself in your love;
The fragrance of your essence I breathe.
You kiss me; you shelter me;
You hide me in the embrace of your wings.
In the darkness, you are the light of my candle;
The beautiful lyrics of the song that I sing.
You are the tranquility of my soul;
The gorgeous realization of my longing.
The sincerity of my eyes and the passion in my touch,
Are the utterances of my heart’s whispering.
I run, I run to you — and you are there waiting. -
We were but striplings, some without mothers, some without fathers, running wild in the night unafraid of pitch darkness with hearts of lions. Our aura glowed beautifully in the souls of us; we laughed and we wept in fierce countenance. We were young, yet many were the trials for us; our bodies skinny and undeveloped, so in the company of monsters we fought with tears and dreamt of vengeance. To keep the pain from sorrowful and depressed grandmothers, some held in their agony and kept the devastating silence. Go back in time, and look into the eyes of us. Move past the innocent smiles, and see the hurt in us. The unresolved pain of our past is the illness of us. We cry on the graves of our mothers and curse the abandonment of our fathers. If I could, I would take away the trauma from all of us. We seek heaven’s light to take away the darkness. They are scarred, and they are beautiful. They are my brothers. They are my sisters. Still, now, with the blood of hope, and with the blood of vengeance, we survive tormented summers and bitterly cold winters.
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Lascivious intent stalk the city blocks were women in short skirts and six inch heels walk. Naked ladies dance seductively in front of eager men for money; they dart in and out of dark 25 cent peep show booths, secretly. The scent of perfume and cigarette smoke lingers heavily; women of the night approach cars with dimmed lights. X rated movie theaters run films all night. The inebriated lean on glass windows under neon lights. Men and women use cocaine to stem the somnolence and numb the pain. Heroin users lie zombified in cheap dingy hotel rooms with dirty needles still in the vain. A prostitute walks down 42nd street in torn stockings, holding her broken heels, feeling the warmth of summer night concrete beneath her feet; she has worked for twelve hours straight with no sleep, under the sprawling glare of Times Square.
People eat in diners at 4 AM, and after two cups of coffee, through large windows listlessly stare. The scent and feel of New York City permeates the night’s air. The underbelly of the city are the fulfillment of licentious desires, addicts getting high, violence, tiredness, the pursuit of money, and sordid transactions. The drunk and homeless urinate on themselves, slumped over on subway platform benches. People wait on the train, with eyes bloodshot and lifeless. Another young lady heads to 42nd street, seeking quick money and excitement. The city blocks swallow you subtly in a matter of minutes, hours, or days. It traps you in its bright colorful lights. Out of towners languish for weeks, missing long forgotten flights. Uninhibited wildness leads to the exploration of long suppressed vices. Euphoria takes over.
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He dances with the beast under a dim street lamp in perfect synchrony, but only one can be seen. Cold rain commences; the tears start to stream. He dances wildly to expel the darkness and temper the misery. The beast continues to dance, but in agony, loudly he wails, painfully.
Intimate Compositions 