Fiaell

I feel compelled to write again about this girl, ad nausium, as though she will appear because I do. She said “You’ve got to let her go, because her pain will only grow; you’ll reap what you have sown! It’s only selfish,” But I know that behind those words, She thought, “Your children are like swords to me—oh, aren’t I adored? It’s now, you fool, or never!” And when she knew that I would stay, She lingered for a bit to pray then carried on her way, and we wrote letters. We talked about the things that changed about me, and of her deranged arrangement with a Northern man, among

Today I awoke, half-eaten by a stubborn flame that cannot die though long the coal departed; I lay here broken-hearted, like it was yesterday she said she needs me not before she fled like times before, though yearning and every time returning. I wonder as the months go by her lodging, and the reason why she bore it all, untethered then left me just her feathers and the most pretty memory for my diurnal reveries assuring, to be clear, to me she’s dying to be near and oft dreams of returning, to quench me, ‘til then burning.

Why do you cry when the eve is so bright, with its thousands of eyes in the moon's gentle light; I have scarcely known anything sweet as tonight, so why do you cry? The aroma of Christmas intoxicates so, as the cookies are baking; the tree is aglow, and outside descends this December's first snow, so why do you cry? Are your teddies not soft as you knew them before? Are you done with the toys that you used to adore? Don't you have what you want; could you want any more? Son, why do you cry? We played with the train, and you're recently fed, and I've tidied your floor, and I remade your bed, yet something unknown gives you trouble; I beg o

Some errors you should not regret; some things should change for ever, yet it's not like hearts to soon forget what once they knew so fondly. But sometimes, yes, we can restart; depends the season of the heart; yet, only reason can impart the nature of a person. The heart moves quickly to assess, and far too quickly to address by what it truly is impressed, and lo, it's skilless effort ends in error; shameful change that needn't be, with needless blame perverts each person's blameless name for nothing.

Call me selfish, for I know what I want, and I know that I'll one day have it. I'll break a heart or two or three, and may eternally suffer my children's chagrin. Call me cowardly, for I know what I need, and I know that I may not try 'cause though she's not quite a dove, and she's someone I cannot love, I owe her my promises and my lies.

I remember the first time you lied to allay your fear of ineptness; you told me that I oughtn't try for my lack of finesse and depth. I realize that things were at stake: your "prowess," your pride and some other. It's tougher to pin, but your veneer is thin: 't was the love and respect of your mother. These may be merely suspect, and I cannot be certain of any, but you once were besotted, and purring you lauded my every line. There were many lies from me, as well, as lauding... a generous bit. I was mostly benign had I chosen "divine" to describe a new stanza you writ. Yet, it sometimes seemed magic because it was you whose hand penned e

Ego mandicare quia eum. Ego adspiro quia eum. Non video, nec sentiunt, sed dormit adhuc in perpetuum sine eum. I eat for him. I breathe for him. I cannot see, nor feel, but lay forever still without him.

At every birth is God, by whom each lifespan is decided, and when one spends another year, a cherubim will then appear to note the age, lest one spend more than what the Lord's provided;-- --and in the wood, behind the thick, Medieval wenches, ravenous for skin that clings to flesh like silk, and in light shimmers, pale as milk, have a special, ghastly trick for keeping health like maidens: Bring a victim to your palms and hold It to your lips; purse them, then consume the soul (slowly; never take it whole, or leave It even partially full; waste not a bit!) in sips. Mind the age of every one; the rest of what's allotted upon ingestion of

She's back with cold fingers and a lot to confess. She takes my body in her arms and softly tosses a tress. She reminds me of what reasons I've been happy before, dims my misery, and when she goes, leaves open the door.

Amid my existential chaos, 'tween the earth and the skies, the only soundness that is found are his celestial eyes.