They think they know us.
They think we’re the same.
They seek notoriety
And take the austerity
Of our suffering in vain.
But in the silent depths
Of our darkness and unending pain,
We remain invisible
And unnamed.
The Darkness of Secrets
The womb of past secrets is stretched in agony,
longing to give birth to what is long hidden and unspeakable;
but its child is stillborn and unmourned,
because dark whispers do not make it past closed doors,
to tell accounts of what was — and the pain that still lingers.
Vengeance is dreamed of, and always tingling on the tips of the fingers.
The heart refuses to fully heal, until there is a reckoning of monsters.
They can no longer live in hiding, plotting; planning.
They must be drawn out, and utterly rooted out by their victims, limb by limb;
even the blood, bone, and sinew of them must not remain.
Nothing shall be left of them — not even the whispers of their names.
After they inflicted anguish, torment and pain
nothing again, ever again, was the same.
Anguished Descent
In agony, she keeps falling,
Praying that love will catch her,
With arms outstretched, waiting.
Innermost
The ink of the poet’s pen wails on paper,
releasing passion onto pages,
telling of love, remembrance and anguish.
The sky is set on fire, and words are eloquently put together;
the poet weeps — writing in-between bouts of insomnia.
Memories do not die, they only sleep,
to be awakened again in vivid recollection.
They tell of a childhood lost, the wants of intimacy and love,
and pain exposed in its rawness.
Tears fall on rough drafts as they are discarded;
the heart whispers, and the hand narrates what can’t be ignored.
The pen itself weeps, as it is infused with the author’s agony;
it bleeds the dark ink that continues to tell a story.
He is no Poet Laureate,
but what he conveys is an emptying of the soul and transparent;
in his world, the summers are hotter and the winters colder.
In his world, the soul whispers the things of the innermost, at the writer’s hour.
The End of Whispers
Death whispers in cold breaths promising solace in the throes of agony;
I will take away the pain if you just let me.
Hair drapes over a chair in a dimly lit room at 2:30.
Faces in picture frames stare unemotionally.
Her makeup is perfect;
Her lipstick and lashes, immaculate.
Through a child’s eyes she would be a beautiful doll.
Her final act is the unabridged revelation of her torment.
In her unmasking there are no subtleties;
There are no whispers;
There are no mysteries to the state of her reality.
Lifelessness is displayed crudely;
Its finality is its cruelty.
Outside, early morning rain falls in darkness.
Inside, there is a preternatural stillness.
She is gone forever, leaving behind possessions,
And the blood of her essence.
She wept in her last moments, listlessly whispering
Words that no one could witness.
Tears that fell from her eyes,
Carried the agony of her remnants.
The Mourning of Love
In weeping agony
I cursed the day
You were taken
Away from me.
Giuseppe Tartini – Sarabande
Agony
In our mother’s agony we were born.
In our own agony we live.
The Final Release
In that moment she was set free,
And shed tears of joy in quiet peace.
She inhaled deeply the memories of agony
And with eyes of fire,
Exhaled agony in her final release.
Antonio Vivaldi: Nisi Dominus, RV 608. No.4
“And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly: and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.” (Luke 22:44, KJV)
In dark and isolated places
Where suffering is endured,
Tears of sorrow are not seen,
And whimpers of agony are not heard.
