Okay, I just got through editing a poem that I wrote a while back. I changed it a little, and put it in paragraph format. Warning: I have not read it yet, so there may be some sentences repeated, if you see any, tell me about them. Also, tell me if you like it or not, because I'm not sure how well it works in this format. All criticism is welcome.
Desolate Mortal
In the shadow of stalky brute trees, a house painted gray, shackled remnants of a once beautiful sight, catches the gaze of lost phantoms, glowing slightly with a translucent shade of scarlet. Howling winds punish the houses foundation, surrounded by black decaying roses. Above this foundation is a broken porch that cracks and creaks from the steps of the lachrymose phantoms. Beyond the porch is a door hanging on one hinge that seeps open from these poor apparitions of eternal pain. Inside is one room of sable walls and shredded ebony draperies, which barely cover a shattered, obsidian window with ten hairline splits in each pane and allow only the moons melancholic light into the bleak room. The hard wooden floor screeches surreally as rats and roaches scatter back to their corners. Here the mournful phantoms crowd together and chant a mundane dirge, claiming this as their own.
These phantoms stare; they stare at the darkest corner of the room where a single bodied entity rocks back and forth, amidst a multitude of hair, which was ripped from his now baldhead in moments of frustration that arise from his forlorn solitude and fear of a neverlasting serenity. His forehead protrudes outward, swelled from being banged against the walls in an attempt to abolish the satanic voices believed to be in his head. His eyes are cracked, hollow, amber, disturbed from ages of sinister solidarity, begging to be free, and always seeking answers. Inside the eyes is a complex and inquisitive mind, raging with questions that have no answers and the mind realizes this, pressing it further into a spinning flux of insanity. Above his eyes are shaggy, bushy brows in which maggots find their nest, always slanted from up near his forehead to down near his eyes, displaying internal conflict of opposing opinions and answers. Between the eyes and the brows is a sharp, crooked nose with stains of blood at the tip. It is sharp from his bitter, baneful thoughts of man and crooked from his fists inflicting punches because of those same thoughts of man. On the right side of his head is a split, torn ear, pulled and slashed in attempts to overcome void deafness. Just below the nose are puffy, cracked, dry, harsh lips that quiver and quake from the blistering cold winds that wail in from the cracks in the door and hang open, yet utter only silence. Caged in by the lips is the desert tongue with teeth marks imprinted in various regions of it, creating a vile pattern of disdainful pain, and it only moves to taste the bitterness of rats organs and roaches juices. A strong chin, representing his strong will to live, lies just below his lips. Even through the suffering and struggling, he fights to maintain life, and even through his suicidal considerations, he finds the strength to halt death another day.
On his body, he wears a tattered, white, sleeveless, auburn stained shirt that has seen eons of dreary anger and never-ending battles, but, yet, the shirt stays loyal, loyal even through its own endless suffering. His wrists are covered in crimson scabs from being slit with the use of shattered glass, with the intention that the demon blood would be released, but it was soon realized that the demons were a part of him, until his everlasting death. His filthy hands, which have never felt the soothing, soft, loving care of rushing, cleansing water, but have only been washed by the harsh, thick, ominous anguish of his own slugging, soiled blood, are resting on the floor, lacking the muscle that allows a human to raise his hands in joy. Inside his hands, his palms are completely covered in scars, formed from instants of aggravation produced from the stress of life and all of its hindrances. Those scars were instigated by fingernails that are now presently ripped off to prevent the continuing occurrence of wounds. Outside of his hands, his knuckles, which once hemorrhaged from being drilled through the decomposed, cemented wall, are engorged and battered. His repugnant, nervous feet pound the floor with the force of a dragons jaw, a dragon that is conscious of its rivers flooding vehemence. There is one part of him though that has yet to be deflowered by the throbbing hand of the grim and has only drank the nectar of the sweet ethereal light, his inner being.
Now out and away from the body, back to the deconstructed room and the punctured abyss that is the far left miserable wall, where, in the center, an anomalous mirror that creates a celestial masque of reality rests, painting the room in eccentric, rapturous, luminous colors untainted by the human eye and unimaginable to the human mind. Everything that was once callous, once macabre, once lamentable becomes placid, divine, and jovial. The phantoms that once chanted their dirge now sing blissfully their ecstatic hymn, and in the middle, in the midst of the entire glorious clamor is the man. A man with flowing, effervescent, rainbow shaded hair, a forehead wrinkled humbly from delightful glee and bursts of hilarity, vivid, aqua eyes that grasp their magnificent destiny contently, and a mind that knows the answers and is no longer obligated to venture to the depths of its being to only find questions. His brows are expressive and whimsical and his nose marvelously and enchantingly moves with each diverse articulation of his face. On each side of his head is a full, supple ear that allows him to hear the majestic resonance of the world. Now, his ruby delicate lips form a smile and he moves his tongue rapidly, assisting in producing the vibrant tenor tone that is his voice. His chin is still strong, sturdy, robust, just as is his will to live. The shirt on his body is the color of the sky and contains the soft tenderness of a mother river. The demon inside of him has finally been eradicated, making his wrists sterile, smooth, and serene with angelic blood streaming through his veins. Running, loving water has cleansed, caressed, and moistened his hands and his palms and knuckles are unblemished, as soft as a milky cream and bouncy cloud. Planted firmly on the ground underneath, his feet are tranquil, alluring and walk in mesmerizing rhythm with his heart. Inside of him, his soul is still like a virgin child of innocence and charm.
Now, this man turns toward the dreary, ravenous reality, gives one last smirk, from his left ear to his right, lifts his left arm above his head like an archers bow, and he launches the sharp piercing dagger in his hand with the momentum of an enraged, charging bull. This dagger obliterates the celestial solace into shards, falling into the abyss, into oblivion, but reality fails to fall into the destructive, despondent, black whole with them. Instead, the man on the outside is forced to finally turn away from the grandiose illusion he created in the celestial mirror, and look towards the malevolent reality before him. The phantoms are now silent, encircling him, and turn to a luminescent shade of purple; suddenly, they begin to laugh and dive into his body, swimming through his soul, filling it with their knowledge of agony. The mans eyes begin to sparkle with the rising sun, and warmth fills his body as death consumes his soul. In this parting moment, the blood in his veins slowly ceases to pump and one final question remains in his mind, but not a question of what, how, or why. This question is far simpler; this question is who. As the air becomes thinner, the light becomes brighter, making everything entirely clear to his open eyes, and he looks around this room he barely knows to see a picture where the mirror used to be, a faded picture of him and the silhouette of a faceless woman.
Desolate Mortal
In the shadow of stalky brute trees, a house painted gray, shackled remnants of a once beautiful sight, catches the gaze of lost phantoms, glowing slightly with a translucent shade of scarlet. Howling winds punish the houses foundation, surrounded by black decaying roses. Above this foundation is a broken porch that cracks and creaks from the steps of the lachrymose phantoms. Beyond the porch is a door hanging on one hinge that seeps open from these poor apparitions of eternal pain. Inside is one room of sable walls and shredded ebony draperies, which barely cover a shattered, obsidian window with ten hairline splits in each pane and allow only the moons melancholic light into the bleak room. The hard wooden floor screeches surreally as rats and roaches scatter back to their corners. Here the mournful phantoms crowd together and chant a mundane dirge, claiming this as their own.
These phantoms stare; they stare at the darkest corner of the room where a single bodied entity rocks back and forth, amidst a multitude of hair, which was ripped from his now baldhead in moments of frustration that arise from his forlorn solitude and fear of a neverlasting serenity. His forehead protrudes outward, swelled from being banged against the walls in an attempt to abolish the satanic voices believed to be in his head. His eyes are cracked, hollow, amber, disturbed from ages of sinister solidarity, begging to be free, and always seeking answers. Inside the eyes is a complex and inquisitive mind, raging with questions that have no answers and the mind realizes this, pressing it further into a spinning flux of insanity. Above his eyes are shaggy, bushy brows in which maggots find their nest, always slanted from up near his forehead to down near his eyes, displaying internal conflict of opposing opinions and answers. Between the eyes and the brows is a sharp, crooked nose with stains of blood at the tip. It is sharp from his bitter, baneful thoughts of man and crooked from his fists inflicting punches because of those same thoughts of man. On the right side of his head is a split, torn ear, pulled and slashed in attempts to overcome void deafness. Just below the nose are puffy, cracked, dry, harsh lips that quiver and quake from the blistering cold winds that wail in from the cracks in the door and hang open, yet utter only silence. Caged in by the lips is the desert tongue with teeth marks imprinted in various regions of it, creating a vile pattern of disdainful pain, and it only moves to taste the bitterness of rats organs and roaches juices. A strong chin, representing his strong will to live, lies just below his lips. Even through the suffering and struggling, he fights to maintain life, and even through his suicidal considerations, he finds the strength to halt death another day.
On his body, he wears a tattered, white, sleeveless, auburn stained shirt that has seen eons of dreary anger and never-ending battles, but, yet, the shirt stays loyal, loyal even through its own endless suffering. His wrists are covered in crimson scabs from being slit with the use of shattered glass, with the intention that the demon blood would be released, but it was soon realized that the demons were a part of him, until his everlasting death. His filthy hands, which have never felt the soothing, soft, loving care of rushing, cleansing water, but have only been washed by the harsh, thick, ominous anguish of his own slugging, soiled blood, are resting on the floor, lacking the muscle that allows a human to raise his hands in joy. Inside his hands, his palms are completely covered in scars, formed from instants of aggravation produced from the stress of life and all of its hindrances. Those scars were instigated by fingernails that are now presently ripped off to prevent the continuing occurrence of wounds. Outside of his hands, his knuckles, which once hemorrhaged from being drilled through the decomposed, cemented wall, are engorged and battered. His repugnant, nervous feet pound the floor with the force of a dragons jaw, a dragon that is conscious of its rivers flooding vehemence. There is one part of him though that has yet to be deflowered by the throbbing hand of the grim and has only drank the nectar of the sweet ethereal light, his inner being.
Now out and away from the body, back to the deconstructed room and the punctured abyss that is the far left miserable wall, where, in the center, an anomalous mirror that creates a celestial masque of reality rests, painting the room in eccentric, rapturous, luminous colors untainted by the human eye and unimaginable to the human mind. Everything that was once callous, once macabre, once lamentable becomes placid, divine, and jovial. The phantoms that once chanted their dirge now sing blissfully their ecstatic hymn, and in the middle, in the midst of the entire glorious clamor is the man. A man with flowing, effervescent, rainbow shaded hair, a forehead wrinkled humbly from delightful glee and bursts of hilarity, vivid, aqua eyes that grasp their magnificent destiny contently, and a mind that knows the answers and is no longer obligated to venture to the depths of its being to only find questions. His brows are expressive and whimsical and his nose marvelously and enchantingly moves with each diverse articulation of his face. On each side of his head is a full, supple ear that allows him to hear the majestic resonance of the world. Now, his ruby delicate lips form a smile and he moves his tongue rapidly, assisting in producing the vibrant tenor tone that is his voice. His chin is still strong, sturdy, robust, just as is his will to live. The shirt on his body is the color of the sky and contains the soft tenderness of a mother river. The demon inside of him has finally been eradicated, making his wrists sterile, smooth, and serene with angelic blood streaming through his veins. Running, loving water has cleansed, caressed, and moistened his hands and his palms and knuckles are unblemished, as soft as a milky cream and bouncy cloud. Planted firmly on the ground underneath, his feet are tranquil, alluring and walk in mesmerizing rhythm with his heart. Inside of him, his soul is still like a virgin child of innocence and charm.
Now, this man turns toward the dreary, ravenous reality, gives one last smirk, from his left ear to his right, lifts his left arm above his head like an archers bow, and he launches the sharp piercing dagger in his hand with the momentum of an enraged, charging bull. This dagger obliterates the celestial solace into shards, falling into the abyss, into oblivion, but reality fails to fall into the destructive, despondent, black whole with them. Instead, the man on the outside is forced to finally turn away from the grandiose illusion he created in the celestial mirror, and look towards the malevolent reality before him. The phantoms are now silent, encircling him, and turn to a luminescent shade of purple; suddenly, they begin to laugh and dive into his body, swimming through his soul, filling it with their knowledge of agony. The mans eyes begin to sparkle with the rising sun, and warmth fills his body as death consumes his soul. In this parting moment, the blood in his veins slowly ceases to pump and one final question remains in his mind, but not a question of what, how, or why. This question is far simpler; this question is who. As the air becomes thinner, the light becomes brighter, making everything entirely clear to his open eyes, and he looks around this room he barely knows to see a picture where the mirror used to be, a faded picture of him and the silhouette of a faceless woman.
Good job, that's what I planned for it to be used for.
