Theatrics.

Would it be excessively melodramatic to declare that the world was made just for the day that you and i may  blithely valse upon its splendour? A magnificent cotillion with fanfare incommensurable, where you would take centrestage beneath the mauve majestic sky you so dearly loved.

And as manufactured light crackles and explodes in wild ecstasy above, let it be that not a word shall escape dark lips, nor a sight escape wrenched open bright eyes. So shall i never forget within all my ostentation, however pompous, that my heart is your legacy.

Steadfast insecurity.

Beyond downfall and overtly saturated disillusions that could very easily lead one to vainglory, is where you stand. Where you stand upon my heart that is a pedestal of my pride sacrificed for groundses now sepulchral soon laid to waste; that is where we gingerly pick at the scabs with blind devotion. (not forgetting the wish for brighter skies)

In soaring indulgences, only of porcelain concern, i still ache for something further beyond downfall and overtly saturated disllusions.

Inconsequential.

Frighteningly disarming, these flights of fancy where your pristine eyes are pored on my intrinsical divide, and i have already lost surprise. Not amounting to tactile adoration, these ineffable dreams are for retention lest i relish ruin.

Yet you must know that I have chosen countless anthems to mourn(celebrate) you. For i do indeed relish ruin, but only in its most innocuous form; melancholy.

Volatile.

How quickly and readily we forget her trespasses, with only the occasional itch to pick at the scabs of a season pined away. (My rest perturbed by insecurity manifest in dreams of ambivalence and satire)

Is it not wondrous, how an atrophic heart manages to make an adamantine vow of arrogance? (And how i still gaze at the sky, as your name echoes within and lies at the edge of my tongue)

Wondrous, indeed.

The red death would not kill me quickly.

As i stand, i am a countervail to my purported transmogrification. Erstwhile consecrations have taken to an otiose fashion, and a backseat to incensed ritual brought about by the redolence that lingers upon your kingdom (of equivocal nature as to whom has raided).

Be gentle darling, for my heart ruptures even now as i watch the sun melt beyond myopic horizons (as does my orphic desire to someday have someone else walk in your stead). Oh, but i am not contrite, and i have no reason to perceive this as anything more than coquetry masqueraded in heartfelt philia.
Thereunto i ask, with invested poignance, to what end?

Till rapture, peradventure.

On my way home.

Neither too extravagant nor quite exquisite. A surge most gratifying, of things that i have developed a penchant for. To honour, and to express; through these small chinese eyes i view the wide world in colours not yet captured by technology and this spurs a deep, quiet confidence within that i have not felt since time inexplicable.

To pen a tasteful magnum opus that would sweep over casual novella and rival biblical tales, such is this aspiring writer’s shrewish desire.

Truly, a sight to behold.

At my black heart’s procession, a black echo of divinity
sings a melody that paints my life black (don’t lose me now,  don’t lose me now)
Not nearly a blackguard impression, this black sensuality
hands with nails painted black, run over a black blemish upon pale skin

Sweetly monumental, the taste of your lips
scented of pressed flowers and a peach to touch
Wither with me now, as i wallow in past faiths (long broken)
No more of black censure, now measured in gold.

My toy, my dream, my rest.

Forgetting authority and industry, i beg with earnest for things not to change so
dramatically
Where pleas are left to the cadence
of whims. Most sullen at best.
In suspension whence i was once first, whither i know not. - now third i stand, forever in postponement
it does not sit well, it suits me not. - This misadventure.

Perhaps it is time to collect my coat, for it is cold outside, &
gelidity is no longer my element.
Of confessional poetry now idiosyncratic;
disarming, & gallant (all forthwith)
I wish you knew. you would never comprehend. How beautiful - wonderful, achingly so;

My soul is a sight.

Monologue epilogue.

“What do you think will happen to me when i expire?” your grip had loosened and your eyes had wandered.

Your lips still wet, glistened beneath the citrus lights, and your hair was in a precious mess.

“You would become the voice in my head.” with that, i turned to walk away in pseudo triumph.

“And i will speak softly, and without pause. What you do not hear, would at once be lost.”

It astounds me, how people so easily succumb to passionate fires that would sooner turn us into cinders than to let us languish in its warm embrace.
Only you would beg to differ.

Monologue.

The rain beat gently against the shut window where you sat, staring out at the sky as if it beckoned to you. I have kept my distance table’s length, steeped in my wonderment and admiration for your stargazing buoyancies which you make no effort to conceal. Needless to say, i was taken aback when you took my hand and placed it against the frosted glass.

“The sky has weeped ceaselessly since you’ve strayed from me. Why do you not alleviate its dolour?” She whispered, never turning away from the vista.
I did not speak, lest i forfeit my current disposition with you, as i have understood that your distaste levies strongly on inventive cecity.

“You pride yourself as a storyteller? Then pray thee, tell me a story.” Your eyes do not mock, and your face lay honest; your words have never obnubilated your capricious intentions.

“My incomprehension confounds me and i will never completely translate you. You, with all your immoderate delights and misanthropic immanence.
How do i prove to you that i am not as earthbound as you would construe, that like you, i have concealed my wings for the better part of my life. I am in abeyance, just like you, waiting to soar into the sky that we gaze at with so much fascination.” My heart pleads, but i was wont to offer the same placid countenance that i am steadily growing to despise.

“I see.” I had pulled you from your abstraction and you afforded me a wistful smile; i am in love with your nonchalance.

An affirmation; This is not how we were, but this is how i will always remember you, for my heart has inherited you (you, with all your immoderate delights and misanthropic immanence).

Squalor victoria.

Whence we forsake our friends, we would contradance, at once eye to eye and hand in hand, then cheek to cheek and heart to heart. As the eventide matures, we’d sit on chairs stark white against benighted green as we cast curses at miserable conditions whilst discounting our own indolence. (How so very juvenile of us)

I offer a placid countenance, claiming steadfast omniscience, but in truth i stand far from it. Within, my thoughts are wassailers to a hellion’s callathump, wedding my soul in torsion to a redundance of prohibition therein which i find myself coalesced in child-like curiosity. I muse with vindication; what with all our soaring dreams and apotheosise of romance, if we were made for this world. (Though i wouldn’t really want to meet someone who was)

Otiose ideas aside, i must assert that i have recently foundered and am no longer in dominance/restraint.

In essence, I no longer author my own disaster.

Feelings pending.

Everything comes back tenfold, withal i have understood that we choose our friends, likewise we choose our faces.

Time and again, the mechanical culture of salutation has awaken us from our quietus so that we may once more ruminate and deplore circumstance. With our intentions set in stone, all that remains is to pioneer our odyssey into the new empire, where modest delights crown priceless revelries. However, the road is fractal and somewhere along the way, i have forgotten what it felt like to be “okay”.

In excursus; with the same amusment as how i look upon each day as a funeral, i daresay it is amazing how so many hearts are breaking all at once. All around the world.

A celebration of martyrdom.

Possibly the only day of the terrestrial cycle that each and every man on earth gets to throw off their mundane shackles, bite a blood red rose and with all risibility, attempt to play Romeo for the day.

Alas, perverted by man’s innate lust for wealth; Valentine’s Day has been commercialised to the point that romance is nothing more than a violet box of Swedish chocolate wrapped with golden lace, bundled together with an exanimate display of colours comprising of culled flowers, made to smile with impeccable grooming.

Purchased with a combination of two things, a month’s allowance and a trip to the mall.

I am not entirely cynical. I do believe that some still manage to hold true to the paragons of Valentine’s Day, looking beyond the romanticised theorem that business enthusiasts without hearts wish to sell to the callow multitude. These people alone endure the sickness that is contemporary Valentine’s Day and they will continue to resist the vile out selling of the quixotic season.

And what do I think is the meaning of Valentine’s? Why, it is of course a violet box of Swedish chocolate wrapped with golden lace, bundled together with an exanimate display of colours comprising of culled flowers, made to smile with impeccable grooming.

Purchased with a combination of two things, love and desire.

Further elaboration is only necessary for the business enthusiasts (without hearts).

Without promise.

“What are you trying to do?”
I’d ask in tones wistful and full of heartbreak.

We’d run with dismay. For i’ve come to understand that it is indeed truth, that you harbour no subsequent motive nor desire any outcome that would reinvent our romance.

And what can i do? When the pernacious temptation to hold you would drown my better judgement and common sense (the same way it always has).

That is my quandary; The legacy of my dolourous days are collapsing into demise, as i watch with fists clenched, eyes shut and chest wide open.
I have pledged collapse.

Yet, i still wish you were trying.

Forlorn at 4am.

Driven to ruin, why would i still let you hold the reins? To sooner forget then to forgive.
Dreadful, dreadful.

With much regret, I have let you become more than you have ever been to me.

Fulminant desires to experience your presence before me, within and without. Revenant retentions that will not cease.
Plague me, plague.

Ever onward with my head turned, looking back.
Where are you?

Gone, gone.