#pardypoetry

[rhapsodyinblue45]

Do you find yourself rehearsing your deficiencies, speaking from the divots in your complexion, living within a confined soul breathing recirculated air?

What if all you design within your mind’s space is but a dream, a fabrication of your own creation, an origination designed to hem you in or set you free?

You live the best reality you design to dream // Rhapsodyinblue45🌍 5.17.18

Image: Blacksmiley, “The Prison of the Mind”

[lettersfromleviathan]

[theinscrutableescapee]

Liebestraum

Liszt’s Liebestraum playing in the background

She watched the two lovers while gripping a trembling glass in her hand. He caressed each note’s delicate skin, responding to every one of her quivers, covering her neck with slow kisses, holding her hand through the peril of the third candenza. No desires were left unfulfilled. Every pressed key said je t’aime, brought the two farther from the heavy haze of the day, interlaced into one dream of love unattainable by the mournful song of reality.

“Have you ever loved me?”, he asked. She turned back to him, unwillingly letting the pianist part from her sight. She took a nervous gulp from her drink, avoiding his eyes. She noticed that his lips were hanging apart, longing for an answer. Her eyes wandered again towards the origin of this music of the heavens. Was it jealousy that she felt? A bovarysme?

“Why did you ask me to meet you here?”, she finally replied in a low voice, not looking at him, the pain crawling onto her words.

“Mon amour”, he whispered, his shaking hands snaking towards hers. She let them intertwine.

Don’t call me that, she thought. She let him.

“This-”, she said, letting the words dangle in the air, her eyebrows scowling from the distress in the stiffness of his fingers. She stopped, licked her lips, and let the background melody inch back into her ears.

“This… has been over for a very long time, Arthur”, she finished, dipping into the placid waters of his brown eyes, in a cracked murmur.

The bags under his eyes were heavy, the tense lines of his face were hidden under a patchy beard; he hadn’t been sleeping for days. She had never called him Arthur. Resigned, they both moved their chairs in the direction of the pianist, sticky tears consoling their cheeks. They wondered what love was while watching the Liebestraum couple dance in such unison, wearing the foolish grin of passion, yet knowing that the night always ends.

“We never had that. We never had… anything”, he calmly said.

The pianist embraced his love one last time. His fingers parted from her thirsty touch, craving for more. The listener could almost hear their silent weep, could almost feel the suffering in his fingertips. He rose from his seat, bowed. Nobody applauded. He left the scene.

© Margaux Emmanuel

[jmsapphire]

Bowstrings plucked like a harp's

Caressing fingers draft, taut

Meander the chords, vibrating sounds

Playing the tune, above or under ground

Overhead you hear the arrow shaft

Whistle through the winds in song

The bowman has enrapt

Target sighted, missile flies

Pierce heart of prey, bloodshot eyes

Thrill of the hunt, lick lips with glee

Savor the moment, this dangerous melody

Cupid won, two hearts with one shot

Sordid affair between two lots

Heracles, Iolaus, under smokey sky

Lovers, two brothers in arms,

This cherub irony in his story he writes.

Unexpected Romances

[rhapsodyinblue45]

I watch as you stoop, a flesh of thoughts, peering through the fire lit space of your future self, a vision of tranquility daily denied suspended from a glass of red wine held to shrunken lips, fingers ensnarled in the daily war of you deserve versus a guttural need to surrender – I hear you.

life is, tragically, tiresome and hurtful; it will soak your feet in the aching blood of mistakes never caught and captured, but, still, how will you spend the long shadow of days remaining? what will you create from this breath, the fragments of your inspired soul?

will you stand ever guarded in the painful scars you adorn, a perpetual martyr to misfortune, or step inside the warm abode of who you are and can become? this endless mind the gap game grows cold as I stand here holding a coat to wrap around your weariness.

life is a series of these solitary moments choices spent staring out as the rain drips from our summer’s words while you sit ever pondering pouring another glass of misery.

letter to heed time // ©️Rhapsodyinblue45 6.11.18

Print: flesh of thoughts (abstractprompt)

Image: Death Looking into the Window of One Dying (1900) by Jaroslav Panuška

[rhapsodyinblue45]

“It’s not that i have something to hide. It’s that i have nothing for you to see.” - Quote from the film Anon

can our lives truly be a tabula rasa of events undone thoughts unknown sins unclaimed standing beyond the door to our identities’ frontiers can we be both the deviant with something to hide and the man with a void inside are we all and nothing the essence of experience sifting through time’s forget-me-nots selecting moments to justify eliminating to perfect the public persona or are we inescapably the sum of our parts the numerator and denominator the alpha and omega the victim and the unforgivable crime

flesh space // ©️rhapsodyinble45 5.22.18

Writing prompt: I am/we are both

Abstractprompt

[lettersfromleviathan]

I tore down the house my father built. I marked each beam with flame, opened the rafters to the birds and the vermin, poured curses into the cracks in the foundation. There was a time where it’s rooms and arches were things of envy, picturesque, but I’m the one who lived there. I’m the one who knows that its’ shadows were dark instead of cool, who knows the secret rooms not outlined in the blueprints, who holds conversations with its’ ghosts in inconvenient moments. I’m the one who knows where paint covered the signs of struggle, who remembers the sounds of locked doorknobs and footsteps through the hallway at night. I’m the one who inherited it. 

There are legacies mixed into our blood, old contracts written in a hand only partially similar to our own. Generational curses. We are under no obligation to live in the houses our fathers built, and if it so suits you, take a lighter to it’s walls.

[lettersfromleviathan]

I reach for my phone As if you still want to talk. Then I remember.

Leviathan