Passionate Winter

Strands of hair and the scent of you linger –
I thought it was in the spring,
But we had found love in the winter.
Tears of my love for you fall on paper;
I beseeched the heavens to find the words
To write you a beautiful letter –

Another winter has come,
And there is no warmth to be found.
I cleave to the memories of you;
The scent of you infuses my blood
To the point of utter insanity.
I have become a madman for your love –

Take me; do as you will, for I am yours.
Passionate love come and take me above the clouds,
And let me kiss the starlight –
My love, let us lie together in lilac fields
and find intimacy never explored,
As you wear the colors of white and indigo –

If your love has been taken by another,
I will await you on the other side for an eternity.
You will be my flower that I will nurture and water –
Spring after spring, I will await your bloom;
I will call your name in my dreams,
And passionately sing to you under a wolf moon.

Winds of life toss violently. Ruminations entrap in purgatory.
There is no redeeming quality. There is no magical ending to the movie.
The credits have rolled, and the theater has been emptied, but I sit alone
With tears streaming in darkness.

Utterances are mumbled and incoherent to the naked ear. The dark parasite Feeds from anxiety and irrational fear; the gluttonous scene renders me an Unwilling host.

I am gaunt from consumption. Hollow and listless …

Hope is measured in terms of respirations. Time is non-existent in the
Torment of endless darkness; eyes turn dark like black ink in shallow water.

I can hear the wails of the woman in the black veil; her cries are torturous
As she pushes an empty stroller; the tattered train of her black dress
Dragging behind her; I dare not pray, lest my anger invokes utterances of sacrilege;

“God where the f—k are you?”

Cold Stillness

Leaves blow in frigid winds.
Illness incapacitates, 
Leading to listless state.
Long held tears are shed
In cold stillness.
Memories of past loves
Vaguely appear.
Silence is shattered
By sudden wailing.

The condensation of
Heavy and rapid
Winter breaths are clearly seen,
but forlorn is cloaked in
A black hoodie.
Wailing ceases,
And apparent calm transcends.
Warm blood spills on cold snow;
Stillness is frigid.

The pureness of it’s potency constantly afflicts
I must calm myself and allow it to pass
The torment of it, indefinitely lasts
My heightened senses oppose my will
I want to rationalize; I constantly ritualize
It is hard to see, but in the pathways it lies
Warfare rages on behind the eyes

A Poem/Rant

It pulls me closer to the ground. It subtly hides itself from me, even in lucid dreams. It exhibits me in front of the crowd in a listless state, as they jeer and stare with heartless curiosity. The piano is played as the sideshow performs. Normalcy was yesteryear’s dream that turned into a fantasy. The stage lights are too bright and roaring of the crowd too loud. The nothingness of the void beckons me with the promise of long and restful sleep. It says it can make the constant torment of my existence go away. Once, I thought I had been lying in a field of sweet smelling white gardenias, with heavenly angels holding me in peaceful warmth, but I awakened out of my daydream to hear the keys of the piano playing once more. The show must go on, but how long will I have to perform? Perhaps a drink, or two, or three, or four, may grant me reprieve. I am a regular so the bartender knows my name. “The regular?” Yes indeed. “One White Russian please, and keep them coming.” Maybe a few cigarettes a day will help to keep the pain at bay; but what about the Surgeon General’s warning? To hell with the warning; I will deeply inhale the carcinogens to ease the constant tension, palpitations, and useless ER visits. Well, don’t forget to be a good citizen and curb your secondhand smoke. Yes of course, I will smoke in the comfort of my own home; well, maybe on the porch. Eager friends with seemingly good intentions tell me to drown my sorrows in a bottle of whiskey. I tell them I prefer a nice triple distilled potato vodka instead, and that anxiety and sorrow can’t be drowned, only submerged for a time. Perhaps I can grow new neural pathways every three or four days? I find myself listening to Bach these days for the most part, (Violin Concerto No.1 in A minor is a favorite) but who cares. I’m craving an Irish coffee; I mean a well made Irish coffee and a nice cigar. As a child I always admired Franklin Roosevelt’s dapper look at Yalta, sitting in the center being flanked by Churchill and Stalin. His black velvet collared cape, pinky ring, well tailored suit and cigarette in hand. I always thought that’s how a man should look. Honestly, I still like the look now. Inconsequential, I know, but still. By the way, family came over for the holidays and raided my cupboard. All my top quality coffee is gone. Guess who has to take a trip to the store for more? Yeah that would be me. Of course with the way my brain is wired I couldn’t take much of the small talk and had to excuse myself from the table. My brain feels literally fried from the viewing of the 24 hour news cycle. The garbage on the radio isn’t much better, music or news wise. I can stomach NPR, but that’s about it. I’m not making any New Year’s resolutions, to hell with it. I don’t like the holidays anymore either, it’s become an annual chore. Doing this and doing that for what exactly? The traditions of old have been washed away in consumerism and overindulgence. People go on eating binges and stuff themselves to the point of gastrointestinal discomfort, pretend to like you, or somehow identify with your personal issues and small talk you to death. Hoards line up to buy overstocked junk at local big box stores, but that’s another subject entirely. This post was initially supposed to be a poem, but has turned into some sort of rant, excuse me. Perhaps more fiber in my diet for 2019? More fiber a day keeps the IBS away, or maybe adds to it? Who knows. Anyway, Cheers! Happy New Year!