She is Life, I am Death. Love and Reality.


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She is Life.

She is Light, laughter and promise.

I am Death.

I am Midnight, anguish and barrenness.

At the Core

Inside her bosom is a womb that nurtures a loving soul.

Surrounding, my ribcage is a prison that entombs a bitter void.

Integrity

She is short of sin.

I am not quite criminal.

We are so different

 

Irony.

We love one another tenderly, permanently.

Absurdity

We bicker, childishly, repeatedly.

Conflict.

Battles of accusations, blame. We wound with words that cut.

 

Animosity

We suffer emotional injuries. We rub at them in self-pity. We condemn the transgression of the other. We hate one another.

Remorse

Disbelief strikes us numb; the reality that we are capable of saying such evil words. We mourn in guilt, ashamed. We hate ourselves.

 

Repentance

We lick each others’ wounds tenderly, as would wolves who mate for life.

 

We are so alike.

Metaphorical Breakdown


Metaphorical Breakdown in Her Emotional Dark Skies

Entirely overwhelmed, Barbara abruptly stood straight up and screamed out uncontrollably, repetitively, and hysterically. She shrieked out in a number of strident cries that caused the windowpane glass to quiver. She was having a full-blown nervous breakdown.

Barbara’s dark emotional sky lit up with her screams in a volley of shooting stars. Her frantic shrieks hurled across that dark canvas of her firmament, painting it with the long, luminous streaks of the colors of a fiery meteor shower.

Her soul’s heavens heard the screaming colors of blazing emerald terror, the roaring conflagration of crimson rage, the unheard sound of the smoldering ashes of denial, and the whispering hiss of the waning coals of dark hopelessness. 

Poetry of the Poison Quill


The Writings of Bryan Edmondson (Fiction and Satire) (c) 2012

The Writings of Bryan Edmondson (Fiction and Satire) (c) 2012

It is the poetry of primeval instincts, written in elegant, serpentine prose; a flowing cadence of words, from the barbed tip of your thorny quill; a quill immersed, and thereby baptized as it were, in the fateful inkwell; the quill’s tip wetted as it plunges into the blackest ink of the blood of blasphemy and taboo.

Your contemplations, uninhibited and shameless, pour out as unexpurgated thoughts, being expressed in verses of palpable poetry; and your prose is excruciatingly engraved into the parchment of my mind—written in that black ink of thantos; ink that is permanent, like the eternal stillness of death.

Poetry, perilous yet hypnotic, like a primordial, ritualistic, chant; your verses like the incantations of self-sacrificing natives; fearful and confused minds, all worshiping primeval instinct. Continue reading