VEIL'D MELANCHOLY.

XXIX - EPILOGUE.

My beloved pages of pure ivory
I come with ink in hand to taint your virginal grounds.
My days are no longer tender— certainly not.

To part or to not,
I urge this question into my bloodstream every night through inoculations of viruses that have plagued my heart.

I repaint my lips with oozing scarlet,
traces of it indebted upon your own.

With my breath heavy
in the lingering presence of a nameless liquor,
I find solace in this illusionary idea of you.
I find solace within the words that have always managed to fail me in gruesome ways.

The terrains of my flesh come with their own constellations etched to them,
and in turn they carry this heaviness that refuses to part.

It has been eons since our parting,
eons since my fingers have traced your skin.
I would say it is a feeling of comfort,
yet strangeness, that I have found myself to be in.
In the enclosed space between a rock
and a hard place is where I reside with my thoughts.

The sounds of that night,
they still echo in the constraints of my mind
as if the events were to unfold before my very eyes again.
Why is it this cruel melody plugs upon my heart strings
and plays itself like a broken record on loop?

Why is it that this heaviness refuses to part?

The paper moon dangles from the starry night sky
and casts its shadow upon our monochromatic beings.
You see me in the company of deceitful shapes and shadows.
Half truths, bitter lies.
I opine it was all the better than a goodbye.

I had hidden your half lies between the verses of my poetry.
They would never know your true beauty,
for they had never experienced such a sin.
The only reminder of your existence
would be laced in words that never really did you any justice.

If it were upto me?
I would produce words as effortlessly as the way a poet lies.
For every night that I had spent etching constellations onto your skin,
I now trace my own for any remains of stardust.

In this little abyss that I have managed to shell out for myself,
time crawls in greedy movements.
Minutes turn to hours when the thought of you rests on my heart.
It squirms like a lump of flesh with seconds spewing
out of its rotten, revolting appendage.
It reaches me, pooling at my feet,
and casting upon my eyes a shadow of deceit.

I am as a prey is to a predator.
I am a victim of my own mind with drugged thoughts, and actions as my restraints.

I take in the air that reeks of grimace,
I let it explore every edge of my being.
It streams through my veins like the blood on your tongue.
These surroundings aren't my ally anymore,
they no longer resonate with my perception of reality.
Objects are dull, mundane with twisted colours that veil my vision.

The solitary source of sound, my own very words,
have started to slip from my hands and dress the sinister grounds shades of crimson.
I am the creator of this destruction.
I am the creator of my own reality.

A reality, that I have crafted
through endless pints of
lost blood, sweat and tears.

Is one vindictive in the manner that I am never to relive the moments of serenity again?
Does vindictiveness employ itself when I have rooted its seed into my very own skin?

I am never to experience the crispness of a summer day,
never to know the beauty that once was.
This destruction was formed from my ashes,
this destruction is my homeland.

My ostracised being dangles in the space between a rock and a hard place.
However, now, it has emits a feeling of understanding
for I am the creator
and this my ghastly creation.
Luminescence doesn't follow my shadow,
its semblance being non existent.

I see the world before me lost in a field of azure.
I hear the wind guiding its symphonies.
I smell the isolation that lies upon this ground.
I do believe even eternal gloom to tattoo itself upon my soul.

My blanched flesh tinted with the
same scarlet that forever pioneered my desires.
I bleed.

The orchestral conduct crashing and falling like waves against my barren corpse.
I scream.

The fresh air of the sea,
its saltiness seemingly metallic on my tongue.
I collapse.

A wildfire searing summer's blossoms through my ribcage,
my vision tainted with maple's tinted hues.
I feel you embedded within my bones,
existing amidst my dreams.

Tu es ma petite mort,
pour ce soir.
Pour toujours.

Darkness,
darkness,
the glowing eye in the darkness.
I surrender.

I HEAR HIM EARLY IN THE MORNING WITH HIS VOICE ECHOING THROUGH THE EMPTY HALLS. A SHADOW LINGERING PAST. A BREEZE OF COLD AIR. I STAND ALONE. I SCREAM FOR HELP, BUT THE SOUND THAT RESONATES SCREAMS BACK 'HOME'.