THE SOUL'S WINTERED TORPOR


In evenings like this one, I miss you with my soul.
Leaving consciousness, I burn, as flame over coal.
In the reeling moments of suffering,
 my eyes fill with tears.
My soul longs for your company,
as it has for hundreds of years.


In times of daylight, a vision, a word or two,
Bring rushing back like madness, my longing for you.

In the crisp clicks of dusk and in the first whispers of the eve,
My hands reach for the locket, and my mind there dost grieve.
Kissing you gently, in the only way I may,
The tears fall just softly, as my fingers they play
with the chain and the amulet, holding contents so dear,
Eyes closing in sadness, you're so far, yet so near.

Living without you is aging me so,
Life is discord and clamoring imbalance,
no reason without love's flow.

I miss you in the mornings, your voice wakes me from dreams
love's tragedy henceforth, coming apart at the seams.
Soft prayers for you in those early moments spin forth like the moon's tidal change,
Limitless and infinite, love's want knows no range.
No comfort or solace, do I find in life's days,
Loneliness has companioned me,
A constant partner, He stays.

I miss you at mid-day as my eyes become mist.
Remembrances of making love,
Past lives where we kissed.
The wine has no flavor,
Food has little taste.
Moments spent alone and desolate,
My soul seems to waste.


I miss you in dreamtime
Your face there, I see.
Even then, one finds no comfort,
Just tears amidst dreams,
no respite for me.


I cannot convey to you,
though the gods know I've tried.
You don't seem to realize,
Only life here, has died.
My heart still is yours
It will remain so.
Nothing in this world makes sense, anymore,
lost are its ebb and flow.


I miss you in the simplest ways,
in times both gentle and bold,
Yet one doesn't know how to break through
the barriers, and the cold.

I wonder if you miss me at all,
these things I do think.
As the slurry of pain and loneliness,
from the cup of sorrow, I drink.

I miss you in daytime, when the sun warms my skin,
I remember your laughter, your smiling words
 touching me within.

I miss you at dusk, in the afternoon's end,
Your breathing, your presence
so wonderfully did it blend
with my consciousness and spirit,
I smiled from my soul,
your love I felt freely,
now pain takes its toll.

I miss you in the night-time, and in the wake of lonely dreams,
Yet there are more acute longings, in other moments
it seems.

For though I miss you in these days
and with night's darkness like a ghost,
It is within these moments of sad silence,
that I miss you, the most.

-G.








Artwork by Paul Connor.  Title: My Love is Frozen
Paul's masterful art continues to inspire and encapsulate what words cannot.  Please visit his site on deviantART.  http://ichigopaul23.deviantart.com/
My Love is Frozen is used with permission of the artist, who retains all intellectual property rights and privileges.

Mistress of the Fracture,
Madame de la Brisé

I hear you say, I am beautiful.
We have years of love and a journey stepped side-by-side. 
Our faces have changed slightly in reflection,
and the mirror deals a different card to the soul.

Then there is you. 
You say I have helped you bloom. 

You look at my body with want and desire, saying you do not share my misgivings. 
You too, say I am beautiful.
Yet, I see the tide coming in and wonder if it will sweep us offshore away, drifting everforth, apart?

There is a special loneliness and acrid sting to the desolate heartache found in this barren place of the withered heart. 
Here, a parched spirit finds a drop,
a whisp of dew on dead leaves, just enough to sustain, but not truly live. 
Enough to survive but not come forth in light.

I am your tourguide in this place of the Dead. 
What business have you?
Ah ne'er a mind pay it . . .
It is as unimportant as the life I now live,
as used up and crackled as the last choking embers in a waning fire.

Yes, I know this place well. 
These here?
They are dusts that blow with the voices of ghosts.
I nurture them.  They need me, at least. 
They do not ask why, but rather simply echo my voice when
pathetic, querying, crying to the gods --  
"What pain in the empathy!"
"What ghastly, white-hot emaciation in the evacuated sphere, used up and thrown!"

Meso.  Middle. The Center?
  The Lukewarm, it really is. 
They don't tell you that in the brochures.

I did not ask to be holy.  Yes, I have heard before. 
It has issued forth from my own utterance and it is almost laughable, no?

I submit that as the grindstone holds my heart, it is further seared and bludgeoned, between two pillars -- one to whom I've given my life, the other, my spirit. 
It is blade-sanded, I say -- this beating thing that rests caged in the ribs of flesh. 

The hot winds blow and dry the desert once more,
the pain blooms like a kiss in my ear. 

Your trap was sprang slowly, over many moons.
The other grew upward around me, and my trellised form, gave life, strength, and the blood of my body so they could live even still . . .
Yet the roots were thrashed in violent tearing,
Unexpected and from fear, the swords clashed, severing my arteries almost in two.

Oh how my tears did flow in those moments! 
How like an ocean, I lived, buried under, unable to breathe.

You're done, aren't you? 

I fear you are. 

Yes, yes, I know. 
I've heard it before when the vessel is emptied and the spring, gone.
In the winterfall, I know its voice. 
It greets me with a sickening grin, making my warm hands, cold;
my joyous heart, broken in a gleaming flash. 
I watch myself die. 

You're done, and once again, I have carried across a stage,
nothing more, though my heart was given freely, truly, and with all love. 


I hear the adoration in the voice of those who illusion themselves into thinking me worthy.
My heart sinks.

The worthy do not find themselves shoved away, nor do they splay across the table of loneliness. 


Divine hope, you are a cruel Mistress. 
Yet, you are all of my tutelage, and all I shall ever be.
The font of my worthiness, you flow forth
and when the light beams, night falls on the Mistress of the Broken. 
"Poet" and "Priestess of Nothing," she crumples,
heaving out huffing smoke breaths of despair, anguish; utter grief and pain. 

The Mistress's house will crumble, and her stores empty for good. 
In that moment, when the eyes have no more rivers to gush forth, she will depart for the Ether, spirit emptied, heard rendered silent. 

Until then, she is racked, drawn, and given a remarkable price to pay once more.
Compelled to sign her name on the ledger again, she checks out her heart. 
It is borrowed, joyously treasured, loved and cherished, until tears and the end of the tale are heralded by the dying of the light. 

She remains. 
In the spring of the world, she dances forth life.
In the dying of the spirit, she joins the linked-arms of le grand danse macabre.

When will it end? 
She will find nothing. 
Nothing will be her demise. 
Her heart will use up its last ember,
its last chord will issue from broken strings too thin to be remounted.


Neither of you want me.  You have outgrown and I have outlived.

My heart dies another death.










"Poet" and "Priest of Nothing" taken from "Has Anyone Ever Written Anything For You?"  Music and Lyrics by Stevie Nicks and Keith Olsen.  Originally released on the album Rock A Little, 1985, Modern Records (US); Atlantic Records (Canada); Parlophone Records (outside US/Canada); Reissued by Reprise Records.  Producers:  Jimmy Iovine, Rick Nowels, Stevie Nicks, Keith Olsen.

Thank you, Stevie.  You are my goddess and have held my head together through your gift of music.  ~ ShadowGypsy