Shattered Mask

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In my sorrow, do not ridicule me. Do not seek to question my heart’s sincerity. Do tears not run in mourning? Do I not keep her nestled in the depths of my soul for safe keeping? Am I not desolate in my grieving? Do my own tears not drown me from incessant weeping? Did I not kiss her face tenderly while she was sleeping? The glory of her beauty haunts me unmercifully — and to think love was within my grasp. Eyes behold my countenance as a whole man, because daily I wear the mask; but truthfully, I am deeply wounded and shattered like glass. I seek to be whole again, but every hour I am violently torn asunder again and again, and I am shattered like glass.

The Whispers Cry

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In the interim, I look at the man in the mirror and speak to him; he whispers of lost love and unceasing suffering. He speaks of the pain that never ends. He talks about who is more precious than even the most rare diamonds and implores me to never betray the heart of a woman. Maybe I’ll see him again, but until then, I will internalize his sayings in deep contemplation. Before he left, he told me to remember him and he weeps at every inference of the tears that rolled down the face of his beautiful woman after her heart was broken. It was the way she looked at him with tears in her eyes, that so touched him. Through wails of regret, he admitted to me in secrecy that of her love, he is no longer worthy and that he sincerely wants her heart to heal and he desperately wants her to be happy; his whispers are that of a contrite man shattered and decimated in totality from his past iniquities. I try to comfort him with references of beautiful memories, but still, he cries unceasingly. He speaks softly when he speaks of her, reaching as if she is still there; and still, he weeps unceasingly. Through loving whispers, he weeps unceasingly.

In Her Weeping

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The black veil is taken away by strong winds,
exposing the depths of agony in her weeping;
there is anguish in her rising, and no rest in her sleeping.
Listen intently, and hear the sorrow of her speaking.
Before misery takes over completely,
she hides the joyous parts of her heart for safe keeping.
The weight of woe makes it hard for her to breathe;
the heaviness of it tears the soul’s fabric
and causes wailing of the deeply wounded spirit.
Unceasing torment renders her numb and listless.
In the darkness, she whispers incoherent utterances in the chair she sits.
Reality is harsh in its coldness — and it can be merciless;
Oh heaven, please turn her many tears in to diamonds,
and her piercing wails, into a joyous song.
Death has taken away from her, what she has loved for so long—
hands, adorned in black satin gloves, lovingly slide down the entire length of the casket,
where inside there is lifelessness — heavy teardrops fall on him
as she leans over, and as if in a trance — she stares at him.
She whispers something to him, before kissing him;
an utterance of secrecy that only belongs to her and him.
Six solemn faced men line up to carry him, to hollowed earth, where they will lay him.
It is there, that she comes with flowers, and weeps in her praying.
The cold fall winds blow against her face and cause her tears to fall away,
as if trying to comfort her in her mourning.
She will see him again in the light of heaven’s dawning.
He is no more, but in her heart, she carries him,
so he walks among the living — breathing, seeing, and whispering.
Even in his departing, her heart still belongs to him.
She is beautiful, as much as she is loving.
She is beautiful, as much as she is loving.







Martyred Heart

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The broken heart is a martyr of love,
giving of itself until the very end
when there is there no more reconciliation;
it is cried over, again and again.
A picture of two lovers in happier times
is turned over, thrown, and intentionally broken;
the strewn shattered glass, denotes a deep pain unspoken.
The loving heart, loved with everything it had,
until it stopped beating and could love no more.
In a cold dark room, its martyrdom is mourned.
The once loving heart is turned to stone,
and it is warm no longer, but cold.
The once warm heart is cold;
it is so cold.



Cradle of Her Heart

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She steps out of the darkness with resolve,
Her broken heart not fully healed;
Still, she carries on with quiet strength and beautiful calm.
She is not deterred, though her tears are carried in the wind;
She does not weep for herself but for him;
It was in the second trimester, that she named him.
She weeps over her loss but will try again;
In her pain, she called on heaven to safely deliver him,
But it was not as she prayed for it to be;
In tears, blood, and agony she miscarried—
But now, it is in her heart, that he is carried.
She says his name in beautiful whispers
And sings to him lovingly,
Saying, My beautiful baby, forever you are a part of me.

Of Love and of Loss

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What is life that we should live it?
What is suffering that we should bear it?
The crow walks along on a long wire
And stares at me as if acknowledging my pain;
The heavens open and release a frightful,
And thunderous rain—
My god, what a glorious wonder;
On sentimental midnight talks of love
Hearts are torn asunder—
Am I not worthy?
Am I not a man who has sought peace
On mornings early?
The frightful thoughts invade and subdue—
In my hour of panic I see intimate visions of you;
You were my world and my only love—
Pure and incorruptible;
You brought from within me a lost smile,
And took away all my troubles—
The harshness of life cares not about
The matters of love and of the heart;
I am lost in desolation and utter dryness—
I am a man in need of water, whispering
Strange utterances and stumbling aimlessly 
In the wilderness.
Who will hear my cry? 
In our moments of turmoil on somber nights
My love, you would cry;
My angel, let us together release our hurt and pain.
For your hurt is my hurt, and your sorrow my sorrow.
I dreamed of you in rows of 
Lavender, fuchsia, purple, yellow and blue.
I had seen you my angel coming from the heavens 
To resurrect me from the death of melancholy,
And lonely despair;
Your gleaming white wings spread and comforted me.
In your warmth I was wrapped up—
The potency of your love healed me;
Your smile and laughter brought me back to life;
The indescribable feelings that I feel
Rise up within my spirit tonight—
If you only knew my heart still belonged to you;
If you could only see my desires deep within …
I love you;
I long for you.

The Final Scene

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Cold winds pierce through her black veil. She stands there alone; all the other faces of sorrow have departed. She stands there and looks down upon the remnants of him, as the cold and howling winds blow against her. She has not cried. She has not shown any emotion. Her face is solemn. The winds continue to howl as her black dress and veil are pressed against her from one side from the violence of the winds. The grey skies open and cold rain is released. Still, she stands there completely still. Her eyes are fixated on him as she continues to stare. She does not morn for him, for he was the cause of her pain and suffering. She had endured the torture for over thirty years. The beatings and the abuse; the endless suffering; the wailing. All he has left her is torturous memories and a dark void. She doesn’t shed tears because his death is her life. She is numb from the many years she has endured. The sorrow in her eyes is for herself, because of all the wasted years of unhappiness and heartache. The tears of her soul are for the stillborn child she conceived in agony; the wounds and scars of her abuse visible for all to see, as she cried out in pain. He had blamed her for the loss of the child and had become even more violent and abusive, even as she lied listless in bed for months. He hit her violently time and time again, as she lie there numb and in silent tears. The pain of losing her child was a pain she could not fathom and had never felt before. Tears streamed down her face, as she prayed to the heavens day after day. Now, as he lie in a wooden box, no life in him, she is emotionless. The winds pick up in speed and the howling is louder; it is cold and the rain is coming down in torrents. She is unmoved. She removes her veil and black satin gloves and throws them onto the top of the casket, in an act of finality. She takes a rose and places it next to her heart for the child she had lost. Without looking back, she walks away as she empties herself of his memory.