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Dear Venus of my Heart,

The Solstice of blue, once flourishing with fiery flowers red, the petals of our garden froze. The chimney of our cabin of dreams, ambitious as Alexander's attainments, pops with the fog of the remnants of heat. We used to defy the now frozen roaring raging river of time and drink from the abstract notion of forever. For me, it felt like years embracing the elation of our entangled hearts, despite the days that went by. But reality is a grey mirror, and, in a hoard of wretched ways, I wronged you. Our Ecstasy, even extremely enlivening, was fleeting in behalf of my secret despair.

Imagine I a long-lasting love, a motto that guards me of any break. An unpierceable vowel, a couple for life, to live like lions loyal, bold and courageous yet entwined. So, to pour my emotions akin to the biblical flood and undergo an Ophelia, or even a Mimì, to subversion it distresses me. The motivations of mine may map me as an adamant, but I am a romantic, a believer of one true love. I just worry my machine shall yield to the snap of the edge and the ever yearly youthful yearning of restless consummation repels me. While passion is the feeling of the flesh, love is the feeling of the soul; one mate shall be fate. And my soul longs for you in spite of the lonely length that loosens our bonds.

Thus, out of my outrageous offense, I repent. I lament my vanity, this vividly voracious scruple of kissing way before and tragically after the priest's last words without a care for the bride. I apologize for this erroneous early enamor and the ceaseless insistence to the raw departure, leaving echoes of you in pictures of us. But now alas is time for my final parting, to let go because move on I shall. Heart breaks for heart's sake.

Forever and always,
H

PS: The fog shrouded our cabin of dreams. I feared going back to our place. But doubt no longer clouds my view, so I cleared the mist. Still, the chimney's black stains cannot be cleaned. Hope for this house rests on its grave. However, a new home is just around the corner. It is up to you to build it with me. I will be waiting.
This poem is a love letter to the person the previous two pieces were written for. It establishes that I finally found a way to move on and ends the first chapter of the anthology. From all the poems in it, this was actually the last one I wrote. Luckily, I actually got to reconnect with the recipient, yet I have not shared my poems with her.
neth jones Sep 2020
to view a sorrow
alleyway
plashy with puddles sallow
a practice run for Ophelia

she rages
       thrashing
face down in the ****** jettison
        of a theatres fire exit

after her spasm
sits up
       hefty breathing
lights up
       a used cigarette
props herself against ****** wall
stalls
and picks up a littered programme ;
a christmas time pantomime

she cries for love and the sense of others
she laughs-laboured
forum within madness
rk Jun 2020
i have never
felt so helpless
as when i fell
head first into you,
drowning
in your murky waters
you were the only
light i could see.
you kissed me
and my body
drifted to the surface
my heart cracked open
like a lotus
knowing that
without the darkness,
without being held
in your grasp,
i would never
have been able
to dance along the surface
kissing the waterlillies
confessing my love
in sweet whispers
to the dragonflies
bathing in the scent
of soft summer rain.
- you were my descent into madness.
Kaitlin Jun 2020
Waterlilies.
And once,
Rue and columbine
(thoughts and remembrance)

Pretty flowers,
From me
(of me)

"Pretty Ophelia"
floating with flowers.
Pretty still,
Nothing more.
Was I never anything more?
She deserved so much better.
averylia May 2020
Oh, Ophelia,
sweet cherub
face, bathed
in moonlight,
doe eyes filled
                with woe:

You are a figure
of my affliction,
falling softly at
midnight, a
delicate dis-
position, fragile
                as soft snow,

a garden you
invite me to,
opulent trees of
treason, you
are the siren’s
call at dusk,
pulling me away
from the

                garden
                of
                eden.
Jade May 2020
Atlantis shall rise again.

She will spear through the currents,
until the helms of her cityscapes
cleave the tides
that have entombed her.

In the beginning,
it hurts
as she guillotines
the barnacles
and bottom feeders
congealed upon her brow.

In the beginning,
she bleeds--

she bleeds--

but

she heals.

Shrugs the brine
from her rooftops
and hails over
the men and women
who sunk her Queendom
all those millennia ago.

As the moonlight
crescendos through
the stained glass,
timeworn prophecies
written in the jagged contours
of greek lettering
reveal themselves upon the pillars:

Atlantis shall rise again.

Ophelia's throne reclaimed
only by the one
who has treaded
The Great Deluge
and survived it

only by the one
who is fluent in
the language of drowning
but has not bowed
to the hurricanes

by the one
with hair like raven feathers
and dark eyes spun to gold
when they look into the sunset

by the one
who is named
after a gemstone,
the most precious
of them all--

Atlantis shall rise again

and

I shall rise with Her.
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King Arthur Apr 2020
Ophelia was only remembered for being dead
Floating daintily in a river, surrounded by flowers
A spectacle for all eyes to see and drink up hungrily
But one day she’ll breathe again and rise up from her grave
White dress sodden, makeup askew, long hair soaked and tangled
And she will realize she she is and break free from that image
The one that held her dead for so long, drowned and lifeless
And for once in her life, her short-written life, she will breath with ease
Scarlett Nov 2019
Eyes stare at me from within flowers
engulfing me in a fever-dream of light
storms rage then twist to limp showers
sprites sense the menace and take flight
In such beauty I find paradoxical peril
grabbed by the weeded floor of the ravine
suffocating on this gleaming world turned feral
I succumb to my death of melancholy green
based upon the painting by John Everett Millais
neth jones Oct 2019
Little shadow
         harked madam

a bird who wears her wings
only as wardrobe
  (though she dreams
   in fits
of infantasy)

  dusty in her bedroom
in trust to her headspace
      an attic dweller

    home school tutored
a burden to her wellspring
   and buried to her title

                      averted
         feet behind the curtain
little shadow
         with the unclaimed
the name of
            Elizabeth

               **

         A foe in the night
an aviary of the berserk :
          vocal nicker
and disputes at high frenzy
  lend from her garret

uneasy on the household
coughing up all of the family
  cussing from their berths

the awoken
shamble and mumble in the hallway
  move in a broken thread up to her attic
   they’ll crack open her privacy
     and find her fast out on the bedding

you can’t spell that to her ghost
        in Elizabeth’s sleep
    it’s sprung from its host

a living haunting
a messed up devotion
  expresses itself on the family
   enforces itself emotionally

the hallways are trailed
    with dried flowers
   and stinging nettles

don’t tread the halls at night
without a pair of slippers
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