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To the prayers who mourn
and to the mourners who pray
To ‪the seekers‬ of faith
as to believe, warmth bring it may
To the souls of whom sworn,
an anguish of grief with ceaseless wraith

Here forth in this unholy grave
Lies the spirit of your salvation

To the lovers who dreamed
and to the dreamers who loved
To the cosmic pairing
as toys the void the fair beloved
To the sole swan, by time, seamed,
an ache of lost mesmeric sharing

Here forth in this sterile grave
Lies the body of your gestation

To the good memories
And to memories of good
To the aether of life
as a ghost encased in soft wood
To the shared old stories
an amusement of cuddles and strife

Here forth in this forgotten grave
Lies the mind of your foundation

Even when darkness raises a wall
(This snake of hope with fangs of fear)
Light shall always scorch with white
(This dove that dazzles with hearts resilience)
Sorry that the fire blazed not the dark,
But charred Faith, Love, those Memories...
And all is lost in ashes of sorrow,
And all is drowned in my silent tears

They won't come back, I won't climb up
Death, this closed door, it's complicated
This poem marks a turning point for the speaker's emotions and the first piece of the third chapter. He reached a relative maximum high, and now everything will go downhill.
Ylzm May 2019
like the blind content just not to fall
the faithless constantly confessing sins

paying lip service to morality
ever ready to shoot the enemy, or anyone

desirous of faith's mountain moving prowess
never really believing literally

faithlessness betrayed by gun always on hand
shooting into hurricanes when prayers failed
My love can only be true,
he said, as he parted my lips with tenderness.
The laurels, they can lie too.

The sunlight rained down from skies awash with dew,
As my world rejoiced, sure nothing was amiss,
For the words from his lips could only ring true.

My darling, my sweetheart, I want to marry you,
He whispered, flooding my heart with profound happiness.
The laurels, they can lie too.

The messenger dove came too late, loaded with sadness and rue,
The festivities had commenced, the lovely couple a-bliss.
For the words from his lips could only ring true.

My dress snow-white, his eyes ocean-blue,
My broken heart rose-red, riven apart with sweetness.
The laurels, they can lie too.

As Hera’s lover had been untrue, so had you,*
I said, poisoning his mouth with one swift kiss.
For the words from his lips could only ring true,
The laurels, they can lie too.
Just another villanelle.
JP Goss May 2014
Two frowns wait for the other to speak:
One long and melancholy,
The other expectant, so fraught and weak.
The boy looks to his dog as though to his lover:
“I wish I could give you everything you wanted;
Life only interferes.”
His mate saunters on, lays low
So he fears, in resignation,
“What is it that keeps your devotion so clear?”
She, silent, in anticipation
“I do not know,” he responded. “But it is not here.”
So the blank canvas continued to be:
His mate continued sniffling unknowingly.

— The End —