Poetry and Prose

Where are you now, my angel divine?
Cast out from the shadows,
Since our break in time.
I think I hear your laughter from behind
Delicate as rose petals, gentle and kind.
But whenever I turn, anticipating your face,
I'm met with nothing mroe than wide open space.
Desolate and empty, the wastelands of my heart
No matter how close I feel your touch, the truth remains
That we're apart.
So I ask once more, for just some kind of sign:
Where are you now, my Angel Divine?
Does darkness hold you, chained to a bed of shame?
Or have you found your happiness,
Escaped all the blame?
Is is cold, mon tres chere, where the wind blows your name?
Do you keep your vigil through the night, unchanged by time,
The crimes the same?
Is there tears and misery playing your ear?
Does someone stand beside you, holding you near?
Oh, where are you now, my angel divine?
The words here are written:
Your death was Mine.
_____________________________________


From Fiction Into Legend
The light has been blown out
from your flame.
A burnt out cinder,
all that remains.
Your eyes, I see them
But do they see me?
I'll believe in you
'Til the end of eternity.
I fear it won't be much longer
before that date arrives--
Your body lives
but your spirit dies.
This final fight, it can't last forever
For nothing truly does.
_____________________________

In the stillness of the night,
when my thoughts entreat me most
I feel your touch, I hear your whisper
I'm forever in love
with your ghost.
A harpsichord is playing somewhere nearby
Tantalizing this misery
A fallen angel's cry.
Shades of blue surround me in this space
I would wake up, were I dreaming
Just to meet your delicate face.
Such selfish dreams, and such relentless fears
Do often lie
Too deep for tears.


___________________________________________

You tore down my shield of silence
With your vicious vindictive wrath
Like some wild fruit with no protection
I am stripped of my skin.
(But then I never was one for wearing thorns)
Would you stare into my soul if I let you,
And like the shaken fruit, consume my very presence?
Close your eyes.
There is nothing more to see.
___________________________________________

There was a time in my mind's eye where I couldn't see past the darkness of history.
Time stood still in that moment, a dull tremor of a feeling I knew all too well.
Voices of the past, calling me, haunting me.
But they are Gone.
Away.
Dead.
Depression effects more than just the weary.
Happiness is more than an idle wish to pass the time.
Why can't you see that?
What is it that you're blinded by?
My tears are not the only ones to be shed.
I am not the first to lose, or the last to die.
But why do these voices persist on calling me?
Why must I stand alone in a crowd of thousands who are the same?

More to Follow. . .