He who forsakes me (Poems And Tales)

The Story of La Pluma

-dedicated to the forgotten poets

It was many and many a long time ago
As old as the trees in the forest and the chirpings of the birds in
the sky, La Pluma began the journey across the land.
Leaving traces of tears and stardust to my brethren.

It's bewitching beauty, the majestic power that it holds
over me, and the desire to escape till the last of my breath.
Indeed life is heaven's great tribulation.
And also mine and those before me.

Mon seul amour et sauveur

I wrote letters of love and tragedy
and I'll be damned even music and comedy.

But I've grown weary and tired.
I close my eyes and all I see is the depth and meaningless
torture of life.
As I lay in this futile body,
my mind and soul began to dispute.

No man nor king can heal the broken man.
The gods have forsaken him.
The vanity of art
My only love and savior
is the only thing I hold on to.

And so I was wary of a lot of things
my ailing health,
and my children's future in this world that I call hell,
but I know hell is mine and so is my unfortunate life.

Maybe...
Somewhere soon as I longed and dream of peace and solitude,
the thunderous whispers will turn into a smile and applause.
This is my dream and those before me,
the forgotten poets, those who were beaten till their heart
beats only black and blue.

Virginia Woolf,
Ernest Hemingway,
Primo Levi,
Sylvia Plath.
And those only I can remember now. To speak a few.
I wept for the sorrow of your life.

La Pluma shall remember you till the very last drop.
Till we meet again.


My only love and savior.

~e~