they have to cut it off
because it's rotting
and the viscera
spewing from it
carries a stench of
Desperation.

they have to sever it
and free my writhing body
of it's bleak and pestilent
corruption,
that oily echoing
of coarse
Lamentations.

they have to cleave it away
so that my mortality
could be postponed
for as long as possible.

My soul.
It must be cut.
It must be severed.
It must be cleaved free of me.

This amputation
is the only thing
that could save
my life...

The accusations, interrogations,
The threats of ending us.
Lamentation, of an aberration
Of love that lived alone, so long.
The blood that pumps, your cause,
Does not dry, but ebb and flow.
But interruptions, from obstructions,
Can lead it to die instead of grow.
Without communicating,
How do we form our interpretations?
Absent enumerating,
What is love? But an unsolvable equation. And if all we are, is wrong,
The only answer is separating

as i walk with nothing but the feeling of my heart
grasped achingly by my ribcages,
i grieve for my future self;
this is a habit i cannot break.
like a sacred ritual
i commence a solemn ceremony
to mourn for the unknown half and
to mourn for myself, a loveless poet.
     will i spare someone all the love
     that i tend in my backyard?
     the garden of all my poems,
     the garden of all my words.
but, what kind of poet am i
if all the love i write is mused by utter loneliness,
soiled underneath the pretty field?
resting in peace in a worm casted ground.
oh, i cannot wait to see
how my garden will bloom
once you enter it.
how your presence will soften the soil
and i will welcome you fondly as you earthen close.
     but please know that rain
     did not water every thing here,
     this love grew because my heart has yearned
     a lifetime to be understood.to be known.
     you were once a figment of all my hurt,
     a muse shaped like a blur that i begged to seek me.
i guess our hearts naturally just ache to be loved
that we yearn for beautiful things
right after killing them with our very own hands.
still, i remain as gentle as i am now
because i mourned,
    and mourned,
      and mourned...
       for someone like you.
a flicker that was absent for god knows
how many lightyears away we were to each other,
that we couldn't hold hands no matter how
interlocked our hearts were at recognizing everything we feel.
so forgive me if i mourn for you by and by
—your beauty is closest to the moon after all,
tell me, how can i not long for you forever?

This society is seeming, if you cannot and haven't involve in atrocious thangs you  seem counted out in the society.

_It's more arduous if you're broke. Life in nigh *stuck lamentation *in  oceans of temptation._
*_
but hold on stronger
not yet the end of whole it, for no_ matter how goes it,

dreadful night long, there shall always be a brighter day just after the dark.

  Going to reach peak 🗻, speak affirmation,
*Amen conclusion. - C9fm

Lamentation
written May 25th, 2021

I want to weep
for all those lost

I rend my garments
for those without hope

I tear at my hair
for those in pain now

I bow my head
for those who will hurt
(which is all of us)

my lamentation sings out
so they know they are not alone

my words rise up
as my tears spill down
onto the page

let my tears - this lamentation
purchase a moment of relief from the gods
for the lost, without hope
hurting and in pain

the gift of one
deep sweet breath
filled with peace.

How come
Every day
As I walk
Through the room
Which was once living
I glance over
And stop,
Staring at the
Empty leather chair.
And as I freeze
I ponder what
Was once there
With glazed eyes
And whisper
Your name.

Though Death may be calling,
I remain on do not disturb.
For I am not prepared —
For I am not equal to He.

How do the gnawing claws of Death ache less than the resultant onslaught of loneliness?

Mannequins move when people do not.
The untrodden land a lingering invitation
To which a response is owed yet seldom delivered.  
Edifices of grandeur loom with open arms.

Mannequins move when people do not.
Hills green with envy and
A thousand eyes which blankly stare
At what dares traverse a land bereft.

Mannequins move when people do not.
Voices cry out in an unfamiliar tongue
With an intertwinement of shrieks
And woeful sobs that reverberate far beyond.

Mannequins move when people do not.
Vacant cradles still rock
Back and forth as they once did
Long ago when whines were heard.

Mannequins move when people do not.
A longing to return to what once was
Before the shrapnel had rained
And they marched, unashamed.

Mannequins move when people do not.
Poppies of red made all the redder,
And slanted signatures upon scarlet letters.
Yet, a lone gaze accompanied a fragile thought,
With sorrowfully spoken syllables
And pursed lips, almost hypocritical
In their aimless deed to redefine sympathy.

Mannequins move when people do not.
For what else does when people do not.
Mannequins move in tactless ways,
Not knowing of transgressions of past days.
Mannequins move when people are nought.
Land demands a usual offering,
One of which silence is futile.