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.
Tag: Writing
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In and out of consciousness, before she left, she reached for her son, who wept with his head turned, and in that moment, she released all the pages of her depths, so that even in death, he could hold onto her; and with all the strength she had left, she lovingly whispered three words to him, while wiping away the tears of his weeping, in her last breaths.
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The gauntness of flesh is the cruelty of illness.
Stillness of tormented bodies at 4 AM
is not sleep, but unceasing listlessness.
The wounded heart is known through
many tears and sincere utterances.
Unsightly scars denote the attempted escape
from unbearable agony;
Under dim lighting in a small room with heavy curtains,
a trembling insomniac moves slowly.
In pitch darkness, the sorrowful hold onto
banisters in cold temperatures, wailing uninhibitedly;
The chief torment of the anxious mind is life’s uncertainty.
From birth to death—in-between,
the afflicted struggle for breath.
Even in their mother’s wombs
babies become stressed;
Stillborn babies are kissed,
given names, and mourned.
In late cold December winters,
distressed hearts are torn.
Unsettling letters are received before they grieve
starting with, We regret to inform …
In the pregnancy of the void
some wither away, and some are reborn.
The soul’s balm is the healing of love;
But from its inception it must be pure—
and unadulterated in the properties of its medicine.
A winter baby is delivered from her dying mother’s womb,
and through blood and pain, life begins again.
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Death whispers in cold breaths promising solace in the throes of agony;
I will take away the pain if you just let me.
Hair drapes over a chair in a dimly lit room at 2:30.
Faces in picture frames stare unemotionally.
Her makeup is perfect;
Her lipstick and lashes, immaculate.
Through a child’s eyes she would be a beautiful doll.
Her final act is the unabridged revelation of her torment.
In her unmasking there are no subtleties;
There are no whispers;
There are no mysteries to the state of her reality.
Lifelessness is displayed crudely;
Its finality is its cruelty.
Outside, early morning rain falls in darkness.
Inside, there is a preternatural stillness.
She is gone forever, leaving behind possessions,
And the blood of her essence.
She wept in her last moments, listlessly whispering
Words that no one could witness.
Tears that fell from her eyes,
Carried the agony of her remnants.
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In their struggle for power they have lost their souls.
They have become husks of flesh
With no eyes in darkened sockets—
Flailing their arms in eternal darkness;
They climb one over the other, tirelessly,
Pursuing ascendancy doggedly.
With clenched fists, one by one,
They scream blindly,
Falling into the abyss. -
We will hold each other until our last kiss, when we are turned to dust, and the earth’s winds gently carry us and scatter our remnants among the fallen leaves, beautiful flowers and redwood trees; when the earth no longer spins on her axis in perfect balance like a beautiful ballerina on her toes in the company of an audience. In those moments, I will tell you that I love you, with immeasurable purity and the depths of infinite sincerity. At the twelve gates of heaven, look for me, and whisper the three words that you mean with all your heart; touch me—kiss me in light, and fall into my arms.
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In your embrace, I wept, as I beheld your face.
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My soul holds onto you as if I need you to breathe.
Strands of hair and gold earrings in pillowcases,
Your aura refuses to leave. -
Silver rivers flow gracefully over skin that shimmers in its beauty. In her nakedness she dances; an evening dress from the past invokes memories. In a silk black robe she drinks her morning coffee; in her aura, their is a subtle sensuality. Plum colored pedicures are a favorite pastime; maybe next time she’ll get a multicolored design. She is young at heart and it shows in her glow; young men pursue her and she is certainty flattered. Men of her own age, try to appeal to her intellect while holding lustful desires. Her favorite attire are, short sundresses and wedge heels in the summer, and tweed dresses, scarves, and leather high heel boots in the winter.
Her makeup compliments her wonderfully; her lips—the gloss and sweetness of honey. She never answers questions directly about her age, but instead, allows the inquirer to guess three times, then contemplate. There is an ethereal nature about her that is calming; she is well versed in matters of sensuality and pleasure, as well as politics, current events, medicine, and academia. She is able to mingle easily with members of high society, as well as rough personalities in the city. In her maturity she ages wondrously. Sitting on a French day bed with her legs crossed gracefully, she looks into an oval mirror with gold trim and brushes her hair.
Intimate Compositions 