Ramone Henry.

“The Willows finished weeping, and are now set to march

But my heart is still broken, and rotting in the marsh.

Her heart was my home,

And I nested in her affection.

Her absence is an injury,

And the torture is her rejection.

What lies ahead for those

Who have been cheated truth;

What remains after grief

Has anchored venom to my bitter tooth?

Ah! She that young maiden,

Never at fault,

Blackened my joy

And forced hope to halt.

And to touch on this frosty night,

Those fingers so warm,

Would fight against cold sorrow

And give no shape of harm.

Yet fate, always deaf to my desires;

Sparked my heart with passion

And let it crumble in a fire.

Rejection be the name

And sadness the fashion.

Such haunting emotion

Blind youth could ne’er imagine.

Dust of stars,

Remnants of burning light:

Scrape against my wounds

With the dying of the night!

Whispering rays of the rising sun’s first kiss

Reflect the sweet words spoken

In yesterday’s untainted bliss.

But now the darkness drapes my naked mind,

And by the quality of pain I

Chastise my own crime.

I tried to confess my soul

To that earthly goddess,

Yet my voice did tremble

For my truths were immodest.

And thus was my detention;

I spoke a language of sadness,

Of which she bore no attention.

The ocean was between us,

And my heart died at her doorstep.

That fall from heaven, and crash to Earth,

Proved more than a fancy, or passing flirt.

To love with vigor, with mind, and soul

To lose such safety,

Makes one empty and cold.

Does she not remember,

Her words soft and tender

Planted in my brain?

Or our shared verses of kindness

That would cure our mortal stains?

Hath she forgot her touch

That mended disease,

Or how my tongue was broken

Until her voice made it ease.

But such hopes are forgotten

When that Phoenix turns cold.

Such destruction seems permanent

For I am no longer whole!

But in my fight for such heaven,

I had not need for eagles,

For I only wanted my sparrow.

Yet my love died of sadness,

“Could I taste the nectar of first love;

Those that stem from winter,

Yet neither blossom nor bud.

Shall the parched earth prematurely

Cover my flesh with its soil?

With my heart never breathing

And my soul drenched in toil?

What hath heaven’s prayers

Remembered of my tears,

Or have the floods from above

Now forgotten all my fears?

While I go into the chambers of winter,

The summer’s sun sinks beneath the sky,

I neither weep nor whimper:

For I sense I must die.

And if heaven should rob me,

Of my life pursuit!

Then it must be remembered, I spat out

That first fruit.

If fire and thunder shall crackle scars

Along my spine,

Let the daughters and sons

Of tomorrow know

I tried to salvage my mind.

Come! For the touch of time

Dwindles as a candle,

The flame that burns;

Yearns to be released.

But if my unquenched hope

Be starved and stained by

The horror of a dark frost,

Then in the mares of night

I must scream: All is lost!

To beg!

The sun to burn it’s light through a cloud,

Or to serenade the rain to water the flower,

Or to ask the tree to shelter me with shade,

Be no sin, no crime, no plea of the mad.

Why then doth nature mock me,

Letting my bones remain,

While my heart does break,

A broken limb will surely heal,

But blinding sorrow,

I cannot take.

Doth thou not taste the yoke of empathy,

Does it’s flavor not reach thy stomach?

Do the embers of shame,

The lashings of betrayal,

Not churn a glance of charity?

Not even pity can I wish?

While I wrinkle, wilt

And Diminish.

Make sure the children know

That I so drenched in woe,

Stood atop the mountain’s peak,

Made a final shout,

No! This is not a tale for the faint of heart. Mere mortals hear only whispers, for none have ever known the fangs of purgatory that brew within the shadows. 

A gentle wind did pacify my scorched flesh, yet the murderous sun with her solar flares did crave for my suffering, and as a fool, I gazed into the beauty of her furnace and my vision was bleached by her eternal flames.

The desert was hot and the sky was black. The volcanoes in the distance began a chorus of screams that flung hot magma soaring through the air, rocketed by wings of rage. My heart was but a shriveled lump of coal.

Then the orange man with his plastic skin found the last glass crown, left behind from the old kings who went crazy, lost their faces, and faded into ashes. And his synthetic spirit and polyester organs helped to fuel his imperfect initiative. And the wandering wizard, with his legs clothed in thorns did approach me to amend the echoing wounds of yesterday.

For just yesterday the grass was yellow and all the flowers were dancing. Yesterday the clouds were made of marshmallows and the rivers still smelt like water. But the children of Mother Nature blossomed with pride in the winter of ignorance, and chose to live like parasites, feeding on the aging souls of their kin.  But in their rampage of insatiable hunger, they set the world on fire. Then the castles burned, and the old men cried, and the ponds of water turned into pools of acid. Then the tainted barnyards fizzled into fiery masses and the embers bruised the animals, and mutated them into rogue goblins. And then the newly christened robots feasted upon grotesque feral carcasses, and in their adolescents their eyes became pale and then they were blind.

And the plastic man spoke in algorithms and codes, and he encouraged me to savor the hymns of the ever-growing star perched on her throne of clouds; Yet he himself could not feel her kisses for his limbs were covered in scabs. Then she, this heavenly matriarch, grew closer, and the heat from her glow boiled his brain, and in the puddle of his thoughts grew malice and plans of future greed. Then he became lost in his fantasies and wandered away, singing songs of future catastrophes.

But now I wither and wrinkle under the blaze of this astronomical lantern, And the cluster of lights poison my senses, and the heat melts my tongue, and my words bleed out of my mouth like melted crayons; abstract and colorful.

Last summer, I thought that she was a sanctuary of happiness. I thought that she was the antidote to all affliction and inner turmoil.

Now I think of her as a cancer that terrorizes my thoughts, and infects my sanity with suffering.

I ocne saw her as a goddess, endowed with an aura of tranquility. In her presence was an insurmountable fortress of bliss.

But now the foundation of such a nice reality, has been inverted and perverted into a pit of loathing disgust.

Dont I feel sore? 

this madness of toxicity radiates 

into my depths, and poisons my core. 

and what for? what for? what for?

I’m just another screeching whale upon 

your barren blistering shores. 

do you care? 

can you care?

is this fair? 

That which once bloomed with the kiss of a thousand singing suns 

has been reduced to an echo, and a shadow 

a fleeting memory of a dream that was never fully realized.

Did we not swim in a fountain of bliss,

now I find that I would be remiss, should I continue 

to try and touch what is a hollow, 

fallow, impotent, and emotionally inept heart.

Did I not once crave, and yearn for your embrace? 

now the sour taste makes me cringe and flee to hide my face. 

But still I apologize until all the oxygen has been drained from my lungs 

and yet still I am made delirious and feel paralyzed and dumb. 

Can it thrive? when it is absent of basic affection and when intimacy 

is a foreign concept, and the castle of ecstasy has crumbled into dust?

there is not a trace of a magic four letter word, or even a glimmer of lust.

Then the silence begins to whisper to us, 

that since we are hardly friends, and it 

becomes useless to pretend, that this is goodbye

Maybe if the harvest comes,

The Reaper will fail to see me.

Maybe if he goes hunting for me especially,

the light from my eyes will blind him indefinitely.

Then will he be lost and reap no more,

and maybe we can sit and talk about politics and romance

Here is heart ache: the heart cracks 

into a thousand little pieces 

and crackles like a lamb 

roasting in an open blaze.

It becomes bruised like a battered limb,

and then it rots in darkness like a neglected fruit. 

and in the ashes there remains a humbling truth:

in the game of war there is a rule of certain death,

I have an unfathomable fondness for the smell, 

and the sensations of the radiating cool breeze, 

slipping in through my window, washing my soul. 

I become engrossed in the sounds of birds singing their operas, 

over the chorus of dew drops, gently falling from the branches of trees. 

It is a symphonic appraisal of natures glory.

I marvel at the blue shades in the sky,

and the soft smell in the air.

I am immersed in the palpable feeling of calmness. 

It captivates my body  and transcends into my mood, 

easing the pain from the tangled, weary, and hurting heart.

It’s heavens glorious testament that there is beauty 

out there in the world, and I inhale and ingest the scent of

Silent Suffocation

runs from this romantic irrigation. 

Yet who will be subjected to 

to all of the humiliation: 

none other than myself.

In this wilderness,

did I not procure my own demise?

This lingering lady is but the phoenix 

of a deadly sunrise.

and now I am compelled to ask:

am I brave or just a tool?

and if I am unable to tell,

Did I not long for your return?

Yet how could I forget how harshly your words 

do burn?

Were you not my Garden of Eden? 

Then how do you manage to constantly pierce my soul,

and leave me weakened? 

What is this madness that alludes my 

ability to use reason?

Is this happiness? of just a complex parasitic illusion?

Is this love?

is this virtue?

Is this fair?

is there no remedy for my 

I sat in a capsule, 

wearing my armor, and held

a bouquet of alien flowers in

my hands. 

I felt trapped as I 

floated in between two 

screaming suns,

and when I ran out of fuel,

I used my blood as oil until 

I turned off the engine so 

I could listen to the voice of the void.

then I closed my eyes

My eyes are Melting,

and my skin is dissolving

The Wounded Vulture

consumes its former lover