It would always end this way.
The onslaught of the cold bites in my face raking silence to the foreshore to the leave-taking of winter pleas with sorrow and penances alone
That trace abandoned into neurological thoughts, into weaves of ice that coalesces the ambrosial sunset (in which that dies) in father’s sea. It transmits into my eyes as my tears start to slip into the ocean.
I reach to swaddle my face with my hands to be alone, to not think, but repentance, from not I, cracks to the beginning of the mind like a fantasy.
I want to leave it all behind, but it falls to the recitations that I hear from dreams that lust for closure and forgiveness.
It nearly kills me. Maybe I want it to consume me.
There’s never an end, there’s never an epilogue to suffering, so what is it?
When I place my hands together above the empyrean lustre pierced by cherry withering branches,
the embryo in the dissonance of the sea, in empty hands they lay—sorry’s, buckling in the dichotomy of falsities, I can’t be the only one at fault.
In melancholy, in half the vista flowers, a shadow darkens with the inscription of candlelight in the dying of the sunset;
slow death, the eyeless waves trample me and I feel a broken remorse flow through;
it incites a frosted afterthought alone. My eyes follow the dark, insanity. Slow death, slow death.
Your lips part in the scent of denouement in the pariah of a moment when there is no moment to assail;
and beneath the bloody unbridled Elysium that intimately grabs me, I can never voice my true thoughts.
I am clawed to silence, swept in the blue perch. I am a droplet in the low-tide in the patterns of the roccia,
and I moved in the effervesce of the sea.
I am no longer bleeding with dismissal, I can no longer give you prose that presses lonely on my scars, illuming the disarray in memory, in psyche, in honesty.
I am alive yet drowning in the preoccupation—the ideation of something better when it’s missing.
I drown with matted sorrow. I harvest my words in the illume of the entryway, the idyll of darkness in my mind…
By blindness, the petunia meeting my sight alone,
I am sentenced to wariness and I lay bare in forgiveness; broken, I see the ray darkly dims.
Madness in poetries, perhaps I should burn them to the sea with my words.
I cannot quell the unlighted abyss that aches the anger in my chest, that wakes rage anew to never forget.
A reflection in the mouth of silence; emptiness says you are a rock in the abrasive pelagic sea. You sink and hypnotize in the whispers ravaged by memory. It has fallen.
It illumes astray, but it’s always with me. It was always supposed to end like this.
I do not have it in me to forgive. I cannot tame the languid blood, cracking, in my desolate heart
At low, which eludes me back to the pitfall, thinking back to forgiveness; I dream, I mourn,
The elocution of the age of intimacy and death, in the nuance and fatalism of language, that can leave in the ghost-eyes of forgiveness onto silence like amnesia,
For as the daughter of an amber sea you wept, I’ve never known you.
The traces of waves bounce droplets of blood, gashed from the flower plumes, and plumes of the horizon;
oblong blood from blood, dark to cinder, eyes redefined in the ocean but only I went falling.
I moved in the effervesce of the sea.
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