February.

Inadvertently, we pave the road to the new empire with much dissent. Obligating ourselves to haphazardly construe liberal thoughts whilst filtering out the drivel. And should said liberal thoughts become taboo, do we cede in mute rebellion or excogitate means to release our hearts from our tumultuous selves?

Be mindful darling, for such notions are often  disparaged by euphuism nonpareil.

In other tidings; was it such a heartbreaking euphemism to let fly emotions that would otherwise be regarded inane and without purpose (much like your endless apologies)? Post trauma ire is the spoil of this Pyrrhic victory, and you would do well to understand that.

I love you, but you’re bringing me down.

Her eyes, not of dark liquour but of bright alabaster sky.
Her skin, not of sun tinted hues, but of porcelain white.
Her taste, not of fiscal fairs at Orchard road but of wide boulevards at Les Champs-Elysées.
Her causerie, not of confused languages but of wonderfully melodic phrase.
Her stroll, not along overcrowded Boat Quay but along the quixotic River Seine.
Her romance, not set against a city of arduous toll but against the City of Lights.

I’d imagine an eventide where her hand is wrapped in mine, as we sit upon the stairs of Rue de Mont Cenis, staring far beyond the horizon of Montmartre
To a sky, not of glaring grey emptiness but of canvas painted in wild rapture.
My love, not of your heartbreaking propensities but of her exquisiteness bordering on the perfection of reel.

Two thousand two is the year you left.

The curtain call required us to rise to a standing ovation and demand an encore of the performers, but we sat silent. Dried streams of tears were apparent under the crepuscular lighting of the theatre.

Earlier we had talked rather jubilantly as the overture hummed in the background. Unlike the many magnates that sat around us with complacency on the tip of their tongues, we were two bourgeois teenagers enjoying the more eminent pleasures of the world.

My voguish marriage to the world of fine arts had brought us together, but I did not feel the slightest solicitude when the protagonist fell in our own aesthetically fractured tale.

I had chosen to patronise her and lead her on with my pretentious gestures and words, which spoke of boundless romance. All this was very puerile of me, as it was the season of separation and I was stupid with confidence.

And then you spoke. “This maybe a theatre, but this is no place for your foolish theatrics.”

You left me with an overwhelming and ineffable effusion. And I think I have fallen in love with you for that.

Breathe with me.

Inclinations supersede regular modality, and i find myself stopping dead in my tracks to inhale the January air.

It really is not a difficult trade, a rhapsody of emotions cumulated from your very ephemeral animation in exchange for the splendid taste of placidity, a world full of sybaritic pleasures. Truly something anyone with good taste would find hard to refuse.

These are the most precious of moments that punctuate our existence.

Cognisant.

Familiarity to such circumstances has allowed me to grow accustomed to the rhythmic patterns that play upon my chest.
To accept the cards dealt with the verity of future romance far from found.
I am left with the speculative notion that life’s panache is indeed of stochastic phenomena!

Of wantonness most abundant, I would discountenance myself.
But i will wear my heart upon my sleeve. For daws to peck at, for i am not what i am, and i could be yours nevermore.

Five Senses. Revival.

All the way into my troubled mind
everything lies dead, frozen in time.
Nevertheless I continue to live
eat, sleep, dream and breathe.

My true reality begins when I dream
contradicting, chaotic; ridiculous it may seem.
Owning five senses, I still lack the last.
The sense of belonging, it is a must.

I can no longer trust my eyes as they warp sight
bend, deform and manipulate the light.
My decrepit human ears cannot really hear,
the screams from my mind, my crowning fear.

My sense of touch, faulted by prolonged utilization
I am unable to use it to feel any human emotion.
And what is wrong with my sense of smell?
The foulness behind that smile, I cannot tell.

Finally coming down to my worthless sense of taste
there is no use for that in this vapid place.
With no sense of belonging, I continue to wander
Everything i am and everything i was, torn asunder.

Hinder.

Last night we celebrated life behind the curtains of the world. Shrouded breaths rise in cadence as curious fingers run over delicate skin. You had pledged collapse with Arcadia in the background, hitherto my refusal to comply has left us strung out and retired.

And it has come as a certainty to me, that you are indeed someone who can make me smile. Yet, the realization that you are not here, no longer brings the all too familiar tides of crushing anguish.

You had pledged collapse, with fists clenched, eyes shut and chest wide open. I will never comply.

Dolce far niente.

I am unfamiliar with such coquetries. Yet, you (with such great allure) urge me forward.
To an awkward extent, that of wild amazement and foreign flavours.

Oh, what of this? Such piquant opportunity presents itself in the form of self abandon.
Perhaps the view from here is worth the fall?

Emotions part 1: depression. Revival.

When the time comes you will see
The darkness that’s befallen you, the tragedy
But for now, you’re stuck in your world of melancholy

The blistering storm has passed, but you still weep
Over frail fingers and a cracked lower lip
Over raw eyes and a shattered heart
Tears hit the ground, you know you’re falling apart

But you never thought this would happen to you
This wistful feeling that you are going through
It entraps and entangles you in it’s virulent cycle
Tying you down with an intangible manacle

And all you’ll have, is your transgression
A feeling of obscure aggravation
This is the emotion, known as depression.

At first sight.

To see, as in to fancy. To imagine, as in to dine al fresco by the moonlit river; savouring the most elegant of delights from each other’s forks. To feel, as in to recognize the lilliputian patterns of your behaviour whilst jointly bedridden by the cardiopathy that is love. To give, as in to subject myself to martyrdom. To take, as in to erase letters from your name, fashioning a sobriquet.

To love you. A chef-d’oeuvre.

Remember reason.

All his kith and kin
watched in silent despite.
As he paid for his sin
strapped down tight.

The surge, the power
it was his final hour.

Callous fingers pointed in his direction
violent charges and malignant smiles.
He was the villian of their perfection
incensed shouts and prejudiced trials.

The surge, the power
it was his final hour.

Eyes averted, knees grounded
i hope you come to regret.
Actions bounded, conviction unfounded
i hope you never forget.

The surge, the power
it was his final hour.

Scapegoat, whipping boy
we will have none of that!
Helpless victim of a vicious ploy
we will have none of that!

Dreaded journey down the aisle
evident innocence, “i want to smile”
“i dont care” said the nonchalant hostile.

All his kith and kin
watched in silent despite.
As he paid for his sin
strapped down tight.

The surge, the power
This was his finest hour.

And he smiled.

What are you trying to do?

Even the most magnificent of edifices would crumble under fateful conditions. Stalwart heroes would garner envy from the common man, had they really existed beyond flamboyant words penned by prehensile men and women of literature. I am no hero.

I have waged this war far beyond what I can expend. The debt weighs heavily upon me and I can only construe surrender. Your recent query has left me spiralling beyond sensibility; Lost outside thresholds. I am defeated.

Tiny hands clasped in the shape of a heart, everlastingly enshrined in wax. I am prostrate.

Well.

Time plays the providential surgeon. Weaving sutures through my despondence, with steady hands and unwavering pace.

Thus, the wild blue yonder resplendent beyond measure would once again be my minstrel.

So here is my hand, not words said desperately.

Sweet (pungent) dreams. Revival.

Drenched with sorrow
Dreading the dawn of tomorrow
Enter the palace of enmity
Cut your feet on broken shards of serenity

Bleed your pain,
cry in vain.
Tears deplete,
hatred complete.

Crawl through the suffocating sheets of morbidity
Coming into the clear of blanketed mendacity
The invention of joy still far from where i stand
Trust easily shattered by the traitor’s hand

Time still in motion,
love found after devotion.
Lost and not found,
hurt in the rebound.

Following the path of past forgotten
Falling through the spiral of lives rotten
Under the bridge of glory arcane
Walk along the river of mundane bane

Live for the day,
die in dismay.
See the light,
uncover the plight.

Walk down the staircase in a hurry
to escape this bedevilling worry
Enter a room familiar to my mind
this place, to my heart, it was unkind

Ignorance consumes,
the insecure assumes.
Victim of self-destruction,
the human seduction.

And then i see you, standing next to me
your face in precarious placidity
Your lips open gently, as echoes resound
the words that are spoken… are very profound…

You said “i love you”…
and it was at that moment
that i knew.
That this was just a dream
that i was going through.

Recently.

It was vague yet astounding; you would plague my dreams with your presence. And i would speak to you, in hushed amative tones and in loud exasperating vociferations all at once.

And i would wake with a heaved sigh of surrender. My mind was decided but i would fail, faltering like a candle flame against squalls conjured by necessity pertaining to your eudaimonia. I can only say that things were never meant to be this way, yet i cannot tell you exactly how it should have come to pass.

So perhaps, it is not fair to ask (rather rhetorically), why this is so painfully difficult?