Weathered Butterfly

It is in weeping eyes that the heaviness
Of the heart is weighed.
She used to smile on the outside,
But within she was slayed.
Condemnatory eyes stare as passersby jeer,
But they are soulless,
And their existence meaningless;
She no longer lives in their world —
In the spreading of her wings
She is gorgeous.

Epilogue (2):

She finally found herself after the turmoil and the tears,
Though the process of her healing would take several years.
Her heart was delicate, but the people she trusted the most never protected it.
In fact, they were the ones who tried to break her spirit. 
A stark lesson in the realization that the ones you love, don’t always love you.
The lowest point in her story was when she recognized that it was true.
The heartbreak she must have felt places the reader directly in her shoes;
Seeing the coldness of the world through her eyes and those sleepless
Nights she wailed and cried, is enough to make the reader cry;
Even more so, is the fact that she was abandoned 
Even though they knew that on that faithful night she could have died.
Her triumph in the late chapters served to be an emotional roller coaster.
I have a feeling this is just the beginning, and her story is far from over.

Narrative of the Anguished

When black lace gloves are laid on finely polished wooden dressers and the long procession is over, in stillness she sits at her beauty vanity and stares into the mirror. Thoughts of sorrow and anger forcefully take over. Silent tears stream as she wipes off her makeup; clothes are taken off and left strewn on varnished wooden floors. To crawl into bed is all she can muster; he is gone now, and will never come back to her. And what of the children’s tears? She must grieve in painful secrecy for they need the strength of their mother. Fall has come, and alone in tearful anguish she awaits the bitter cold of the winter.

 

Live Through

Awakened and the nightmare begins
Daily life must be lived
But the anguished have nothing left to give
Unwanted thoughts torment the anxious
Irrationality becomes their reality
Depression consumes in totality
The body is willing but the mind is perpetually spinning
Eyes well up with tears for seemingly no reason
To the world the pain is hard to explain
In dark rain the distressed can be heard fervently praying
If you listen closely to their whispers you can hear them saying:
Dear God, I wish I had another brain 
I can’t live another day with dark clouds over me, and cold rain
What did I do to deserve this pain?
Let me live again and free me from these chains.

The Devil’s Whip

The decadence of man consumes them in their own greed. Even with full stomachs they vigorously and ferociously feed. In the shadows they grunt with bits of rare meat stuck in their teeth. Bloated, they laugh heartily without guilty conscience. Gluttonous in their frenzied state they are blinded by self-indulgence. Corruption of the soul renders even the young among them to appear old. Their faces contorted and excessively wrinkled with a ghost like appearance; their teeth serrated and discolored beyond belief; their gums black and resinous like pitch. Like pigs at the trough they are fattened, but their slaughter is of their own making; wicked minds devise illicit plans for unrepentant pillaging, and more and more taking. Conviction of the soul in non existent; endless tears and dried scattered carcasses are their remnant. Though they wash themselves again and again, the foul smelling stench is permanent. At the slightest sense of fear they scurry like rats to their enclaves and peek out of curtained windows with bulging eyes astonished with horror and panic; henchmen do their bidding in exchange for a piece of their ill gotten gains. Though immortality is sought, it cannot be bought; in futility they spend money endlessly seeking to never grow old; wanting to never die. Ignored are the pleas of the poor, and the children’s piercing cries. As time passes eventually the decadent and cold, grow old and sick. Writhing and emaciated in luxurious beds, and struggling to forever exist, it is in their last throes that they feel the sting of the devil’s whip.

Souls of Potter’s Field (Hart Island NY)

Now you rest.
Eternally marked
Are the places they slept.
The hot summers
And cold winters
They endured,
But were forgotten
In death.
May roses grow 
In the places they wept;
Weathered bodies,
Weary minds,
And heavy breaths.
You are memorialized.
Oh what pain to see
Life through your eyes:
The illness and affliction;
The cries.
Nameless no more 
On that peaceful stream 
With the dawn of 
The morning sun
They rise —

You are loved; you are thought of.

Behind the Scenes Photos on Hart Island, NYC’s Mass Burial Ground

For lost loves and broken hearts
For the sufferers and torn apart
For wonderful dreams and peaceful streams
For the intimate moments we hold sacred in our memory
For the survivors
For the resilience of depressed single mothers 
For the hopes and dreams of loving fathers
For the time you told me I was a good son
For the time I told you I loved you more than anything in this world
For Julia, Alvara, Herminio, Viveca, Howard, and Esmeralda
For making me a drink and sharing a cigarette with me when I was in tears
For loving me for the time you did
For the love I poured out unconditionally to all I’ve loved
For Sandy and the time we rode the 2 train to Grand Concourse
For summers in New York
For the pizza shop around the corner from Burke Avenue that sold the best slices
For my grandmother
For my mother
For the promise I swore to myself at an early age not to be a non-existent father
For the first time I told you I loved you, and meant it with all my heart
For understanding and genuine compassion
For the anguished who think they can’t hold on any longer but always find a way out
For those who are gone and dearly beloved, whose memories will live on forever
For Irish coffees at any time of day and good cigars
For the lonely and the pursuit of genuine love
For the tired and weary who take long rides on city buses to make a living
For the victims of abuse 
For the homeless who quietly cry in dark abandoned buildings in sleeping bags on cold nights
For all of us.

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.