There's nothing poetic about his sorrow, his suffering, his exhaustion. Still, we desperately try to romanticize it. We alter grief into art; beautiful flawed art as if to escape the brutal reality of the situation, making it easier on soft delicate hearts to bear.
So we convert his salty tears into majestic glimmering waterfalls,
Gracefully making their way down his rocklike cheekbones.
Flowing from his heavenly eyes down to his lips; oh those sinful lips: bittersweet, soft, addictive, flesh burning lips, oh... those sinful lips...
A saint, a devil, a mortal, good, bad, the Holy scale embodied.
And with the shivering of his limp body; the quivering of the skies in rage; the opening of Hell's gates.
And blood dribbling on the floor, white marble stained crimson.
Oh! Fallen angels dropping from the sky, doomed, condemned to forever be heaven's unforgiven outcasts.
-Nour Ibrahim
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Lost thoughts
PoetryThat's the unfortunate reality Of star crossed lovers, No happy fairytale endings, More like Romeo and Juliette their love kills, When they don't acknowledge each other's feelings. -Nour Ibrahim-
