one & falling

My wings are to be clip. That is what happens to all those who fall. Do not stop the fall, for someone had to fall. Was it to be me? Was it to be Beelzebub? Was it to be my wings? Oh! The sorrow lost; the love betrays me. For, he was beauty. If not beauty, he was poison on the spill, on the verge of toppling over the defenses of the concrete mind.
He brought about destructions in the cities. His smiles made an endless plane of dark fog. I see a mountain a building a stone for a heart. In this heart within it feel him drop; see the clipped wings and the shadowed silhouette. To be a mockery of the goodness, for having all the pleasures was not enough now she plummets. One by single one they drop back to an endless fall--and endless fall to the heart.
“Don’t reach out!” Yells the Virgil: the master guide through this darkness, and all of those who warn against too much compassion. The young never listen-- and now they collapse.
“But they don’t fall down.” Whisper the women of tears. No, not down but in; they all fall in. The ever-rolling words and murmurs rollicking beyond the mud. The mud, that slides inward to this stone. To this heart. A cold dark descend, and the darkness envelops a poor soul who once loved-- not down but in. She is using the splitting hammer on the images that once used words. By Jove’s sweet nectar did she once taste; did he once taste; that they all took and fell. Now lost forever for they have none anymore.
The goblet held the blood, the beauty, all, that washed upon this land mixing with the mud and the heart. So many see this all through the ages, they record and splash it into the history that is our own. They space it upon paper and canvas, always giving warning of too much, but they do not listen. Please excuse the falling Anselm for they love and lost, and they do not ruin your palace.