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Isaace May 26
When the transcendental died, Cézanne howled to the moon;
But Cézanne, he knew the truth:
He saw, in his eyes, that life could not die—
In his early work he displayed this truth.
But, he was corrupted by Camille Pissaro,
And his palette was lightened to boot.
Yet there still remained, on his most turbulent days,
Everlasting darkness that strained,
Winding its blackening roots.
Sequel to my poem A Mourner's tale

Her days turned darkness, as evil taunted her soul
Shattered she stood as the night fought her
Harrowing it was when time stood still
Fearful it were when he held her down
as he took away her reason to smile again
In a journey of ten minutes he took away her dreams alongside her innocence

There was no morning too bright to elude this darkest plight
There was no one to hold her again
No reason to smile
No light too bright

And then

I say

It was blinding how the sun pierced into her damaged soul
And when night came, she could not feel,
She could not see


It was shattering
It was shattering how pieces of her couldn't be mended again
And how these pieces spread beyond her life
It was shocking


It was shocking how her own mind questioned her existence
And how she lived through life, existing, but not living
It was monstrous*

It was monstrous how men could damage a flower so pure and beautiful
And how they go on damaging more flowers,
Crushing them and eluding them all of their innocence
It was blackening
Copyright professor Marylyn-Dolly
All rights reserved.

— The End —