The Path of Agony

In purgatory we are suspended.
Anguished screams are the byproduct
When the spirit is wilted.
Epitaphs are written and rewritten
With each changing season.
The anxious and depressed are listless;
There is no room for anything else.
Constant torment of the soul causes scarring.
She is beautiful on the outside,
But on in the inside she’s dying.
When the dead are gone they leave behind the living,
But the living are not living.
In the darkness cries are heard,
And the stark truth of finality is contemplated.
Day after day agony is compounded,
And there is no room to breathe;
We flood ourselves in the tears of heavy weeping,

But there is no reprieve.
With laborious breaths we make an existence;
The delicate shell of us craving a life of substance.
Once filled with life, we drag the carcass
Of yesteryear behind us, hoping for a resurrection,
Or some type of rejuvenation to bring life back into our eyes.
The preacher preaches a fiery sermon
And tells us to look to the skies,
But we have prayed and prayed again, and we are tired.
The world turns its face from the frightful imagery of our reality;
We are mannequins they dress up and pretend not to see;
Still, we are flowers in winter
Waiting for spring to bloom in all our glory.
In giant books of gold bound with the blood of our pain,
The gods, they record our lives, and write our story.


The residue of you lingers.
I am infused with passionate thoughts;
I must purge myself, but sensuality taunts.
I taste of you, and your flavor is euphoric.
To let go I must convince my heart.
The strong potency of memories
Must be diluted with current reality
Lest there be an overload in sensory.
The recipe:
                    1 part memory to 7 parts reality.

It must be savored and consumed slowly,
For the sweetness can mask its cogency;
Still I am inebriated from overconsumption,
As I secretly indulge with endless craving,
Like some starving predacious being.
Unknowingly I am in your rapture;
Sensuous and loving thoughts haunt me sweetly.
On a clear night I dreamt of the story of Adonis and Aphrodite.
The fire left center of my chest refuses to be quenched;
From past memories I piece together my own collage of what’s left.
On amatory nights with dim lights against my neck I feel your breath.


The Earth cries out in pain and we hear her. They have misused her; they have taken of her bounty with crude instruments that destroy her. The changing of her climate has given her a high fever. She suffers the diseases of pollution and deforestation. Tons of garbage are strewn over her lands and seas, and she is angry. They have pillaged her and are unmerciful to the wails of her agony.  They rape her in incestuous transgression for she is their mother. Greed has infiltrated their hearts and poisoned their blood; the soil is saturated with water; her tears are the flood. In her bosom is fire; for her precious stones and metals they drill deep within her. She is beautifully adorned with diamonds, gold, and silver. Carbon emissions have eroded her protective layer … they continue to defile her. Ice caps melt, and her wild inhabitants suffer. They have lied, and her pain they deny. Oh beautiful mother, your sons hear your cry! We stand with you and fight through the hottest days and coldest nights. We adore you, for you give us life. She will endure the years and one day again be covered in ice.

Love Fades

I thought in your heart I had found a home.
In the the throes of my suffering and lament
I found that I was alone.
In the darkness of desolation I reached for you,
Yet still my portion was ridicule and isolation.
Against my will, my heart holds onto you and loves you still,
But like leaves in autumn day by day, 
The memories of you, they fall away.


The Parting and Rejoining

The last words to his love were intimately spoken. The sincerity and love in his heart conveyed to her in eternal whispers. Read his last rights, he left that night immersed in the depths of her love holding hands; his warmth against her warmth in silent passion. On his body were the drops of her tears; even in death her love sustained him. She gently passed her fingers through his hair and kissed him. The marriage of souls could never be broken. The angels wept as heaven’s light received him. The violin of her soul composed a new song dedicated to the memory of many years; upon returning home indeed she did cry many tears. It is in weeping that the contents of the soul are poured out. Her love, oh her precious love, in the bed in which they slept, she reaches for him. In the cool air of the early spring, in her heart she writes letters. He is memorialized in the gleam in her eyes that truly signifies the perpetual love in her heart, for that gleam no other man could capture. He belongs to her and she belongs to him forever. The poetry of her soul are the loving utterances when in loneliness and in darkness … she calls his name. In intimate moments of her devotion she feels his hands moving gently against her body … she recollects his touch; she is moved with passion. He is neither gone nor forgotten, for he is right there with her in those moments sharing in sweet euphoria. He calls her name again and again in amorous whisper, and she hears him; the voice of her only love penetrates her consciousness and inundates her with dreams of their first kiss. Oh what a recollection of amatory! In her mind, again and again she replays their story. She is an angel in glorious beauty. She lies down next to him. His warmth holds her eternally. 

Window to the Soul

The dust of my soul are the remnants of pain and the stories untold. In the wind I am carried effortlessly like flower petals in spring. I ride on ten thousand golden chariots and make my ascension; the moon and the planets are my neighbors. In my song there is a sweet fragrance akin to vast fields of white gardenias. My piercing cries are like that of an eagle; I soar above the clouds and view my life’s movie from the heavens. That boy, oh that young boy with a caramel glow, eyes wide and bright who befriended the crow. He suffered, yes he suffered indeed, and the world didn’t know. At the grave site when they lowered her, tears fell from my young face, but when I got older I found there was no more embrace. Oh wondrous mother, look upon your son and see the agony of his days, for the men mercilessly kill and the women’s hearts are cold and no longer filled with grace. I have had many lovers in whom I sought shelter, but my own naivety betrayed me, yet the desires of my heart still slay me.

My redemption has been written in the dark ink of the dried blood of my ancestors turmoil. In tears they were shackled and forcefully made to lie in their own filth; packed side by side in agony they died and were brought over on ships. Enslaved and oppressed they were  mercilessly beaten with whips. The blood that ran down their bodies now runs through me; a child of pain, I arrived through the sweat and screams of my mother’s agony; her long hair and hazel eyes a wonder of beauty. I stare into the mirror, and still the eyes of that child that hoped for more stare back at me. He doesn’t say anything, but he knows what I’m thinking. His expressions of sadness and lament move me to want to comfort him, but I cannot, for I am him. Every now and then he sees me and smiles. He dwells among the stars and is a god in my mind. 

Eyes that Hide

Torment and agony are the portion of the afflicted.
Behind the eyes is where it lives.
A smile can be deceiving, for even in the warmth 
Of good company she is naked in cold winter winds.
Words sometimes cannot be used to express true feelings.
In whispered utter these are the only words she could muster:
If I may seem distant my love, know that it is not you.
When asked how she was, she said, 
I’m fine, knowing it was not true.
Ideations of not being here cause her to rush to another room
To weep, wash her face and hide the tears.
Are friends really friends when the burden can’t be shared?
She is loving and considerate, and their feelings she would spare.
But it is when feelings are held in that the wounds are deeper,
And the tears, and the agony, and the wailing.
Even if heaven knows her cries, still, inside she dies …
Unknowingly they take of her, and take of her again.
In their euphoria the essence of her they freely spend.
Beneath the surface she craves light and healing;
In her breath, her preciousness, her torment, her pain
Her aspirations, and the agony of her life are so revealing.
With wondrous eyes she is beautiful and sparkling, 
But Look past her countenance and deep into her soul to see her suffering.
Her childhood you would witness; the pain of abuse;
The hell of silent agony and constant misuse.
As I stare into her eyes she nods and greets me with a smile;
In knowing the essence of her, I embrace her, gently kiss her, and cry.