"witheringly" poems
What if the war machine
was a tarnished memory
and the void between
the pillars
Why there is not contentment for the content
but and endless series
of Roman pillars inside celibate convents.
The pillars of the Panthéon are bars in a demented prison
fermented with the stench of a rancid batch
of torrid dreams.
A palace of pain an pleasure,
a hotbox of sin for the devil's leisure.
Leapt to every level of Dante's hell
and up again
No knowledge have I aquired,
but confusion, a quiet
illusion, and I am tired,
oh, so witheringly
tired.
"We are drawn to the concept of escape"
Nietzsche said.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
The unique buds of magic, the wondrous feeling of scents.
I can't bare to stay here in this abyss, the abyss of isolation.
The flowerbeds grow from despair, witheringly when they finally gain,
the feeling of yesterday being poured away.
I should never have bothered with grace, graceful elegance left me behind,
I know it's impossible to do the things they proclaim, I know it's impossible,
to be the way I always see my face in the fabricated world.
Listen daughter, in the future of mine, never let these people push you behind.
Curiosity sometimes rightfully takes over your will, for I was curious too on how I live.
I never wanted you to fall down this hole, please return to me in my future arms.
I couldn't bare to see the desires I once had be wiped away from me.
Scattered like ashes, of used-to-bes, nobody deserves pure hatred,
nobody deserves to feel alone.
I know daughter of mine, when I see your hair shine in the lights of the world,
slowly forming into the explosions of used-to-be life which will be left behind, please hold me tight.
There are too many flowers in this garden, the ones who grow violently shiver those who cry, the ones who are left behind to wither into nothingness should be the ones remembered internally.
I can't hold the thought of desperation, the feelings that I wish would go away from me.
The hands that I once wanted to caresses me are now the ones I wish would bleed.
I no longer want life to be, a spiraling act of infinity.
Please.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
A mid May Day
Summer light
You turn
your violet eyes flash mine
And your hair dances with the wind
Causing anticipation
Setting love in
And I see you
With twinkling eyes in the moonlight
Lavender fireflies buzzing in the dusk
And you smile at me
Setting me so free
Of anguish and misery
And I see you
Floating in the mist
Of Rosie pink blossom
Carrying you away
Promising to see me the next day
And Then i see you
With him
And your eyes are black
And your teeth are rotten
And your hair is thin
The air is dense
And filled with sin
And I see you
With your Bleeding heart
Through your chest
Rib cage of moths
Witheringly thin
In your hellish nest
You will die in
And I see you
Where Dandelions grow from you
And bouquets I never bought you lay over your head
In this garden of death
Sing for me a hymn
To save my soul
From my deadly violet sin
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 4:21 AM UTC
At the foot of my balcony,
there was an inviting hole,
allowing my eyes' vision to enter,
luminescent colors burning in my head,
like a child's fantastic playground,
retaken from memory's debris.
Running out of time,
night's veil faintly glowing,
stars reaching out to me,
asking me witheringly,
why I would treat my soul beneath contempt,
why would they appreciate my absence,
my whiskey's glass,
cascading,
down the shade's slide.
Breathy wind skimming over my soaked lips,
disappointment prowling through trembling legs,
the joy of night,
taking one's leave,
the sighs of dawn,
crossing the threshold
into waking life,
tears steadily drying out,
curling my consciousness insentient,
ruptured hole,
denying my presence too.
May 15, 2025
May 15, 2025 at 7:41 PM UTC