This is a first draft. Gothic, dark, poetry toward what the competitions want. ENGLISH |
Die Dunkelheit, unsere schlupfwinkel. (the darkness, our sanctuary). (work in progress PLEASE LEAVE REVIEWS NOT JUST RATINGS) Nostalgia for days I kissed your marble pure white shoulders empty hours of mockery and that aching deceitful enunciation; The wait on the crag, sunset on an azimuth by dark boulders; but feeling as I pushed... and your face screaming upon descension... And I felt little. Seldom do thoughts of the sepulchre tread on the barren mire of my emotions. I miss the vanity from owning you and the miserable times; Your silhouette above, your claws slowly creeping into my chest; When I said would endure oblivion With you and such trivial lines but I saw your soul… and within your eyes, I decided to divest… And I felt little. When you do cross my macabre mind I tend to brake into a blissful toothy smile. I lust for the theatre of the drama of your disturbed desperation; blank and hollow sunken eyes drawn charcoal, corpse like jowl; instant nonchalant your halcyon suicidal ideation; but You were a heathen… Nomore. Hitting the rocks you gave such a howl… And I felt little. Euphoria is associated with your unwarranted death, and I am complete, feel no jealousy at night as I see the sea drag at you. I mourn for the nights, we sutured another, you and I painted; We enacted plays, I was silent as a mine, a Harlequin; It was reverie, succubus and incubus so close I once fainted; And have nothing to say, Now im bloody filthy, I know where I‘ve been. And i feel nothing. |