His Splitting Heart
Its madness, I quake in fever of your love. But I am stretched like a victim of Renaissance, slowly separated in two halves. Each yearning for something else. A tragic scene I have become, a mad creature of the desolate.
Dragging my halved corpse like a sickly dog by its collar. No strength to hold its own, only whimpers of defeat. I argue as if I am two, looking to my reflection as I am stained in the blood of my heart. I look of famine, my soul, desperate in the tears of love.
While I am lewd in my craving of what is denied of me. Corrupting my own lips upon black roses, straining the world of any color. Creating bleakness to be my romance. Candle light and lonely screams now fill my nights.
It's horror I wish to leave, yet, like an addict to the itch of narcotics; I pleasure in its familiar appeal. Though in the waking moments I plead for comfort. For peace in this delirious heart. For you shadow my mind with every passing thought.
You are a scar upon my heart and it has forever bowed me. This madness that I am, I curse it as well upon you. No man should be such as I, an imbecile to the bewitchment of love. It is only a fools game to play. A game that is set for only the naive to win.
For those of such ways see not the agony nor the treachery that lurks behind the chest of love. They see only the flowers that bloom from their veins. How sweet such a heart must be, so simple that even in deceit they will follow love to its death.
Falling deeper into the core of their own demise, all for the sake of affection. Till they recognize not their own soul. Losing it to the unrequited love they devoted every breath to. They lose themselves so well that they become vessels for the ravaged.
Drinking in the presence of any and living with a resentful pulse. Too meager to depart from that which has neglected them. Or that which they see only darkness and what ever lingers beyond this derelict view must surely be worse.
For they have heard the screams of the lonely and fear them much more than the suffering they bear. Oh, what false appraisal we give love. As if it is the safer alternative to anger or isolation. In isolation one must only worry of their own beating heart.
They must worry not if the love they love will be their executioner. Severing them of humanity as they shrivel into but a spec of dust. Quickly forgotten and brushed from the chest as if a crumb of food. Oh, how I dread your presence, though you be not by my side.
Yet, I care for you as I care for the calling of my emptiness. Heeding to it till I can move no more. Till the voices muffle any sound of my heart. I care for you as I care for my lungs, willing to fill them though I wish death to be their air. It is madness and I have become two, from this desolation love.
Love, is never the enemy, only the thoughts we attach to it become our enemy.
What are your views of love?
A heart should not only be heard, but also read. A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words
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