Tribulations and my afflictions are misery

This cryptic, ironic, depiction is misery.

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The warmth of the sanguine is never in me

The cold cells of mine are dead, are misery.

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What would it take to ever **** me?

Perhaps, if only one thing, misery.

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What is a sickness without remedy?

It is a malignant growth of misery.

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Verification of my friend, my enemy,

Certainly my brother, my nemesis misery.

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Confidence is precedence in my virility,

Verily infecting, lacerating misery.

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I, Andrew, deny that ever woe could have been me,

Although I surrender, I succumb to misery.

There once was a desolate heart,

whose beating would never start,

But along she came

To disappear again,

In my dreams, she masters this art.

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One day she came and smiled at me

More beautiful than the shining sea

And then in my chest,

My hopeful breast,

My heart drummed a loving creed.

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O, to the pain I feel inside,

How I wish it would subside,

But I love the passion

I have to your faction,

Of your loss, I am petrified.

The tears, like frost, become my favor,

But they don’t ever my happiness savor,

The memories, how they haunt me,

But I am happy whenever I see

Your face in my dreams,

Your arms around me.

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And I am happy whenever I feel

Like it once was, it felt unreal,

All of this has burned my soul,

Such a feeling for a soul once cold,

I miss your scent, your pheromone,

I miss being there whilst you were alone.

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For every sickness that could ail me

I knew you had the remedy

The cancerous hate that grew inside

Was suppressed for all time.

When you walked across my path

It didn’t feel so alone at last.

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The dark woods in which my mind could “play”

Has lost the leaves, the autumn decayed

Everything there that was there to love

Everything else feels like wearing a glove,

There is still feeling, but numbed here now,

My skin doesn’t touch, no feelings endowed.

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Those who have died have been this spared,

This feeling of wretchedness prepared

Me for all these types of misery,

The knowledge to avoid this pain eludes me.

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This key may no longer to me belong,

But my heart is still yours, though it be not strong.

Let no one ever upon it gaze,

Until one day, perhaps you again say the phrase,

Let no one take it, lock it away,

Even if it remains forever to decay.

Willst thou grant me

status of thine nightmare?

And willst thou endeavor

to afford me your care?

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The longing doth grow aside

The heartache that turns my insides

It never leaves, it never will

I dream of dreams of caressing thou still.

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Bereft of thine love, mine light so dear,

Soothing laughter of thine smile so clear,

A chamber so cold at night, I die,

Of thou to me next, I fantasize.

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Thine eyes that gaze into me still,

The photographs still break mine will,

How the sapphires through mine own burn,

How they now are ever stern.

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Corrupt am I, who’d let it all decay

For the pair of us to run away,

Though mine head may be atop clouds high,

It is all for thou, mine starlit sky.

I am your pain and suff’ring

I am your discontent,

I am what you must hate most,

I am irrelevant.

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I am the truth, despised here,

I am the prophesied

I am the mind so unclear

abysmal in elegy

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I am forever lost now

I am creation’s lie

I am the standing citadel

If only towers could cry

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I am the gallant memory

Of dreams and warm delight,

Masochistic to myself, the enemy,

I am the death of all the kind.

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I am lost love, and silence

I speak through severed tongue,

I am those hollow voices

That speak from among the tomb

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I am the dawn of depression

I am the boiling sunrise

I am without my Crescent,

My Moon, my only light.

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I am the horrible nightmare

of all destroyed and gone,

I am midnight’s breath of air

I am alone along

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I am without emotions,

once they here, but now no more.

I am the lack of suppression

Dying inside with no remorse.

In my heart there grows an ache

Its pain ever harder to take

And in this misanthropic misery,

where my words, static, fail me

it has deepened the darkened chasm,

the heartstrings snapped and broken,

never to fully heal to harmony

without your serenade, I am nothing.

Under the sepulchre where my heart beats slowly,

There lies a necropolis where the dead lay glowing.

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The undercroft beneath my ribs inhales frailty.

The tombstones of the truth here reminisce of failing.

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An Acolyte to the corpse of Babylon,

The basilica spire, lies thereon,

A whisper of what had there been,

Before the Plague, the demise of Men.

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A Monk to the infected Abbott,

The cathedral drowning in the cab’net:

The darkening secrets, too much to let go,

The flowing blood, too much for the snow.

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A Coquette to the blistering Brothel

The modern meretricious hostel,

Lays Her cradled head down to rest,

The false hopes of a Prince, there infest.

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The memory of a malignant massacre,

The Cancer spread like fungus on cadavers,

He tried to scream with no chords to make

The sounds emitted to keep the worms away

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A Father of a Failure, afraid of the mirror,

As well as his own damnable creator.

The dissolution thereafter commences,

Although none change his recompenses.

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The Leader of a glorious tribe there fallen

Rotting, decaying, like the rest of the solemn

With all respect, I know not His name

Forgotten in time, as was His fame

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A “Friend” to a Martyr turned to a Betrayer,

Betrayer embroiled terms of the conveyor.

Martyr’s eyes and entrails are now long gone,

Though not with time, his head absent along.

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A Dread-Worker to His mortuary,

His concept of death one day did vary,

Found were His diaries of a necrophiliac,

The town had him drawn, and quartered at that.

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A Navigator of the salted sea,

He lays here now, bereft of memory;

It took His ship, the rocky cove,

His body here, His soul with Jones.

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A Prophet of a fictional God,

He said he’d save the sacred sod,

And yet no miracle ever made He

His followers putrid now, festering.

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The Violinist to His melody,

Forgot to eat, His mortal form craving,

Developing the perfect serenade,

He fell starving ‘fore having writ the last grade.

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There is no judgement among the dead,

Except for what we give unto them,

They sleep soundly, forever eternal

Caring not who lay next to them, fraternal

Are they, and with silent kindness

Accept those also sharing their blindness.

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The piercing shallow eyes,

At least for those who still have them,

Lack vision of the sky,

Or of the flowers who up to it stem.

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Under the sepulchre where my heart beats slowly,

I feel a chill inside my spine that takes advantage fully,

The necropolis has inner bliss

It lies under ground and in our midst.