Martyred Alone
To oblige the allures of mind's condoling;
Validity tempting, adversity enduring.
Words breeze my ear, bitterly conceited;
Bereft of direction applicably heeded.
The lusty laughs of the chosen norm
Revel in brothels while my passions mourn;
Emanating the hatred of my own deviation:
The damnation of sustenance; malevolent elation.
Chasing norm's chaste; brutal ardor's sick reward
Starving, crying, bruising, cutting: martyred alone.
Yes, I slept well last night…
12:00 AM
12:33
1:20
2:00
3:11
3:18
3:24
4:00
4:22
5:14 AM
Nothing
If I could but whisper these words in your ear, ever so hushed in phrases of lulled simplicity, I would. Our faces would not meet for a moment's intimacy nor would the overtures of conversation be exchanged; steeped in cacophonous distraction. Very truly I assure you that not even for a moment would my hand rest in confidence upon your knee - seeking the refuge of your gaze; nor even would I fathom the seducing of your attention, juxtaposing intent with desire.
A stringency of posture circumvents the earnest pantomimes of my disparity; our form perfected by the habits of pretend. Yes, though we be groomed impeccably - the couture of ersatz emotion - we are disheveled souls; rigidity but the citadel's of deprivation. Alas, are my postulations preposterous in merit? When shall I succumb to the anxiety's of this torture, this self-inflicted plight? Am I not perfect in appearance?
Seated are we two in flawless discomfiture; criticizing the swirls of wooden floor and gaunt of our physique. And in such a manner will time contract as do the waning remnants of our endurance; the flicker's of impish light taunting in sequence. Your chair and mine shrieking the infinitesimal delights of acknowledgement, aghast at the mere publicity of such imperfection. So as reverberate in tremulous ecstasy veracity's delights will I whisper to the echoes of deceit: "I'm scared."
Silence.
There is no citadel to fall in glorious raptures of defeat - for I am alone; my hand groping the imponderable depths of void, where now I know not how to thrive.
1:22 AM
I cannot sleep; for the pureness that blankets the outdoors seems only to mock me - the moons' incandescence lending that wistful glow of vain contentment. And so mine eye wanders snowy contour, pausing at the blemish of rock and pine; disconcerted by the topple of barren branch; counting the bristle of an ivy bush; staring intent, inwards, deeply: deciphering those frigid drifts within the winds, within my mind which proves the storm.
Cast off this frigid hour - I want it not; wishing, no, praying for those same blusters provoke me to my final sigh: eternal frigid grace. For my weary eyes are but the eaves upon which cling the frozen daggers of despair: to balance only so precariously on the stone which is my heart.
Thaw me. Breathe not longingly nor with pity on the rigid, coarse limb which is my arm; breathe only so that I may feel your presence: inexplicable, surreal. And I will feel with bitterness the warmth, the rapture of your perspiring brow as you cajole my expiring limbs towards the ferocity of heat set hearth. And I will long for loathingly the stubble of your chin to revive the lines upon my forehead - brushing me carelessly in such a way that inspires the hush of contentment. But I know no such contentment; for my hearth is more so the proprietor of blackened ash than the impish flames of madness: for, yes, I rather madness than the frostbite of restless despair.
But I cannot sleep, and these blusters bring not that final sigh; this hour is but the avarice of my resolve. To endure this bluster for the weathering of another?
I cannot sleep. And so I freeze.
