Archive for the The Madness of Art Category

Of the Rain

Posted in From a Melancholic Soul, The Madness of Art with tags , , , , , , , , , on March 11, 2012 by mistressofpoetry

Characteristic Circles of Droplets by Arielle Carroll

A black cat graces the upholstery
As I sit in the filtered spectacle of fading light.
Towers gaze at me from a distance,
But I am much farther than they —
Drifting, somewhere in the mist-filled horizon of dreams.

She sings softly to my companion and I —
Her voice as soothing as any I have heard —
Injecting memories both fond and powerfully distraught,
Though, for the latter – the ghosts are inescapable,
And I have come to terms with their melancholia.

I smile, knowing the grievance by which she comes.
She understands the plight I bear as the sun crosses paths with its elder reflection —
That pain, which I write so eloquently upon the parchment —
It is my salvation from the haunted dancer who lurks in every corner of my mind,
Satiated only by my end; but she will stay my fear.

I would that days such as this remained always with me.
Though no other could see such beauty in her ways, I see ecstasy.
The patterns in her tears are nourishment to me
As art paints itself upon the canvas of my soul and flows to the pen;
And her imaginations enchant me beyond the comfort of sanity.

Nature embraces her chilling caress in blossoms of vibrant hue;
Chants fall from the children of the soil;
And the drums of the mother’s heartbeat reverberate aloud.
I could fall thousands of times,
But her kisses will always cover my frail weepings.

My heart would join with the silhouette on my window,
Tracing stream-like fingers which touch my inner workings.
Would any wise man embrace her love,
He would rejoice in such comfort,
For her passion would melt the stoniest heart who dared to touch her tears.

The Tapestry

Posted in The Madness of Art on December 16, 2010 by mistressofpoetry

Voices disembodied
Memories without name
Rise freely from cashmere thoughts
As doves
Flying high from sight, like ghosts upon the morn

Fields of illusion dare sweep away the tears
Of paintings wrought by madmen
As I lay dreaming of castles in the dust
In a room filled with grey
And blood

How leaves have turned to ash
And shadows have turned pale
Like floating agony
To follow fingers drawn in red
As the last trace of life lies bleeding in the storm

The amber of soundless moaning pounds the walls
As a vulture, come to collect the feast
Devouring silver tears
Which rose from the silent grave
Of my soul

Shreds of an endless tapestry
Flow from walls of black
In effigy, torn and shaking
On floors filled with lust
As the music reigned supreme

My desolate wish for ending
Whispered to the falling sand
In the sudden silence which drove its claws
Through my helpless body
Pierced with solitude and suffering

Images flow from eyes of madness
Waiting for the weaver’s dream
As shadows watch the dancing path
Of the circling firelight
Fading from within these enchanted walls of sleep…