He died last night, our cheerful boy.
His body wasted. Skin draped in veins
of blue and black, and bones which
sought to burst apart his life...

His weakened breath. His stare which
scared us to the core, since he was there,
but not as who he was just two days before...

His mother stopped her tears hours ago...

Ah, my boy. My boy! If only I had seen.
This raging virus, in so much rumour,
yet spread so fast, like unchecked
tumours... and I let you loose, to play
in that sun... to have your fun...

WHY?! WHY GOD?! Is it not right that
you should have taken me? That the
light in my eyes should be torn away,
and I lay awake, delirious, bones
splintering under my very skin...

But as always... God doesn't answer.
He just stares at us, occasionally
poking us into reaction.

He died just last night... My boy. One second breathing. The next... silence.

I will never be able to get that silence
from out of my mind..

Your desperation
reeks
so much that you can
smell it in your bed
and you can hear it
in your head.
Sometimes you’d like to
fill it with
lead
so that you’ll really
be in your bed
where you can still
hear her voice
as it
echoes
in your head
like it did in the
valley.

O, speak, Torment! I shall lament no more; no more of this uncertainty in which I have been thrown in, no more of this game in which my Virtues always win, in which I always surrender to the tenderness and reproach of the Lady. I, too, wish to speak my mind up. For I love thee not like a cat loves a mouse, like a dandy dragoon Captain loves a Cossack woman. But I love thee like a young man falling headlong in love, like the Priest loves his God, a devotion only a man who had long been tormented by solitude and uncertainty could gather in his heart, like a dying man grasping for his last breath; but do tell me: dost thou despise me? O, this torment of uncertainty!

Three words came at me,
Banging my door like crazy.

I open, and see,
'Hey. You. Free?'
Standing in desperation,
Questioning my availability.
Smelling like they skinny dipped
In a pool of alcohol & jealousy.

the white knight did not make eye contact
when he left
simply, he picked up his sword
and walked out to a starless evening sky

he left the fireplace lit
clinging to the remnants of blackened, ashy fire wood
as his heavy metal boots clanged
every step of the way

i watched him climb atop his neighing stead
and heard the clip-clops of hooves fade in the night

i told him to stay
he didn't

soon after
he returned
but only what was left of him.

i pray that the melody of me
play along with the sonata of you and her.
i pray it echoes through your head
as you did to me
with the waltz of almosts and
the staccato of uncertainty.

After a long time
they decided to meet,
after the sunset
as usual.
No display of affection
but with gentle etiquette
as usual.

But today the sky had gathered grey clouds,
and was raining outside.

They waved hands to each other and
secured their places to sit.
Adjusted themselves to the depth of comfort.

The conversation began
with the warmth of desperation.
They talked,
some romance.
They talked,
some friends.
At that moment the ambiance around got as blurred as lost.
And the time was flying.

Between,
that in-depth conversation,
They noticed,
they didn't look into eyes,
although nobody was hiding anything.
But still why?

The redolence of coffee and tea
represents them quietly.
They are different but together.

It was raining when they met
and decided to leave when it stops.

"The rain is stopped, and it’s time to..." you said.

"But the wind is still strong," I interrupted.

Desperation within these darker places,
I have an ironed out yearning to bid farewell to those faces,
Who chase me down their corridors of boredom,
I'm towel dried by routine and so stripped of wisdom.

That slithering hand around that cold, lifeless face,
****** and clockwise at one insipid pace,
Tells me I'm late and I've just missed mirth's deadline,
So here I am, consigned to this, life's callous, common flatline.

But I will rage and I will curse at the dust and dawn,
I'll think tightly of a polished image and forget that despotic yawn,
I'll beg truth to show me beauty, ardor and distress,
And I will open my enervated eyes to this old miraculous mess.