Eternal Asunder

 

Last Kiss by Massimo Pedrazzi

Eternal Asunder

Across dimensions, poems written as writhing

in agony, the poet and his veins slicing

the very paper reminiscent of a tale 

for a life with no love, only stale.

Countless verses with words both told and untold,

A heart aching, stuck inside its walls of mold.

Ages of thrill for the biggest sin in life,

for an eternity wasted until a gluttonous afterlife.

Sought the peaks only to become a pest

of stories reminiscent of bleeding from the chest.

For a quill filled with blood torn asunder

leading to the sweet breath of your mouth under.

There are no stories left, only to observe;

thus thy visage shall become undo my preserve.

Harnessed the Sun to be none but null,

songs of funeral, striking my skull.

Aching bodies with a soul no longer hardened

and hands disheartened, a creation burdened.

'Tis but my funeral, shall we celebrate

for what it is worth, I am au fait.

I waited at the bottomless pit for a soul for a soul

with hands ready to serve, ablaze a charcoal.

To be the quill to redefine devotion, I was

waiting for one with sweet steps through mine to stroll.

I, a mere observer now, see the promised lives of youth,

Now a life hidden from me, the stolen truth.

Greed and jealousy run through my veins,

raining on me, straining my steps, engulfing my pain.

These heretics, dare I say, fiddle with a flame,

whereas I had the brightest phoenix reside within.

But who could have known that almight would fall,

leaving me alone to withstand my kin?

These heretics, dare I say, are of nights impure,

whereas I would bestow my silk for dresses that of stars.

Weaving my hands around the loved one, but

to embrace it? I would be the silk on her dress.

Henceforth, I am but a mere remnant of a creation

whose verses now impure, his heart too dark.

And thus rises salvation from ideas of conflation

ends with a poet's suicide, with no eternal mark.

I have lost one too many. For what is worth, it's now empty.