Love
There is this word which does you fear. Tracing its scars for always. Given birth to in happiness, dying out in the pain. Drawing its ploughings in your heart. Love. You remainders dependant. Of its meeting, dagger with sharp blade. Imperceptibly being inserted in your defenses. Love. With the body without face. Wallowing in your nights well too wise. Run the wave. Overflowing and howling. Love. Forbidden fruit. That you carry to the fleshy lips. Tasting honey and the poison. Of its tears drowning your reason. Love. Leaving Te stripped. The obscured face, reddened eyes. The contrite heart, the ravaged heart. Crying emulously. Love. Without which you feel frail. Quite simply mortal. And which points out you. That you can be beautiful.
Lire la suiteAmour
Il y a ce mot qui te fait peur. Traçant ses cicatrices pour toujours. Enfanté dans le bonheur, s’éteignant dans la douleur. Dessinant ses labours dans ton cœur. Amour. Tu restes dépendante. Frileusement en attente. De sa rencontre, poignard à lame tranchante. Imperceptiblement s’enfonçant dans tes défenses indolentes. Amour. Au corps sans visage. Se vautrant dans tes nuits bien trop sages. Coule la vague insolente. Débordante et rugissante. Amour. Fruit défendu. Que tu portes à les lèvres charnues. Goûtant le miel et le poison. De ses larmes noyant ta raison. Amour. Te laissant démunie. Le visage assombri, les yeux rougis. Le cœur contrit, l’âme meurtrie. Pleurant à l’envie. Amour. Sans lequel tu te sens frêle. Tout simplement mortelle. Et qui te rappelle. Que tu peux être belle.
Lire la suiteThere is this sentence impossible to finish
There is this sentence impossible to finish leaving me unable to write before weakening. This vacuum tears me, pushes me to howl. Hugging of a throbbing pain. Shining in the remote reflection of a worrying vision, honey of a spellbinding suffering. Carrying this infested sweetened taste of the one evening old venom without a future. I know that you expect me. There is the ocean ready to boil, its waves start to quiver. The sky will darken, to invade me. Bringing the shades of the past. The breath of forgotten words. Jetés to be loose and bad. I know that you hear them. There is this feeling to stagnate, to rot. The storm which is on the point of vomitting, to curse. Going up slowly covered in mist. Stenches of our sentences. I know that you feel them. There is the fear of suffering before undergoing. Rain come to cover what could dirty us. At the time of entry in the cemetery. Mass grave of our rivers. I know that you understand me. It regrets this impossible there to define bringing a gene before leaving to me. To punish me, prevent me from diying. Of a damaged love of our sins. Grate frictions with the stone of our excesses. I know that you go. There is this feeling ready to die, tired to hear the worst. Eager to flee before expires. The breath of any hatred. Forged in a vain fight. Swept incipient storm. Shining in the remote reflection of a worrying vision, honey of a spellbinding suffering. Carrying this infested sweetened taste of the one evening old venom without a future. Who is it and mine.
Lire la suiteLe miel d’une souffrance envoûtante
Il y a cette phrase impossible à finir me laissant incapable d’écrire. Ce vide me déchire, me poussant à rugir. S’étreignant d’une douleur lancinante. Brillant dans le lointain reflet d’une vision inquiétante, miel d’une souffrance envoûtante. Portant ce goût sucré infesté du venin d’un soir sans lendemain. Je sais que tu m’attends. Il y a l’océan prêt à bouillir, ses vagues commençant à frémir. Le ciel va s’assombrir, m’envahir. Apportant les ombres du passé. Le souffle de mots oubliés. Jetés pour être lâches et mauvais. Je sais que tu les entends. Il y a cette sensation de croupir, de pourrir. La tempête qui s’apprête à vomir puis à maudire. Montant lentement embrumée. Des pestilences de nos sentences. Je sais que tu les ressens. Il y a la peur de souffrir avant de subir. La pluie venue recouvrir ce qui pourrait nous salir. Au moment d’entrée dans le cimetière. Du charnier de nos rivières. Je sais que tu me comprends. Il y a ce regret impossible à définir m’apportant une gène avant de partir. Pour me punir, m’empêcher d’agonir. D’un amour abîmé de nos péchés. Rappé de s’user sur la pierre de nos excès. Je sais que tu te rends. Il y a ce sentiment prêt à mourir, las d’entendre le pire. Désireux de s’enfuir avant que n’expire. Le souffle de toute haine. Forgée d’une lutte vaine. Balayée de la tempête naissante. Brillant dans le lointain reflet d’une vision inquiétante, miel d’une souffrance envoûtante. Portant ce goût sucré infesté du venin d’un soir sans lendemain. Qui est le tien. Qui est le mien.
Lire la suiteThe colors of a pale morning
This evening, in the half-light of the distance the colors of a pale morning will fall asleep. Made fragrant in the patina of a painting drawn with the charcoal. Crossed by the gashes of branches scarifying the sky. Wrapping itself in one day the fugacious memory without trace. Leaving the cold and the silence of a river which in-is dozed. The heart of a turbid water to the movements will run which intertwine. In the dance of a devil to the multiple jokes. Gravity of the air, its odor, will carry the perfume of moisture. Who will extend before fall the veil one starlight night. The song of the birds will die out. Leaving the theater empties, the given up scene, death for guest. Crawling, corrosive, throbbing, turning in round. Like a wild beast in evil of food. The wild eyes, the dull hair, lends to tear. By hunger, desire, pleasure, throwing itself on the least grazing ground. Only, the incipient day will be able to drive out it. Of a rising feature of white color. This evening, in the half-light of the distance the colors of a pale morning will fall asleep. Made fragrant in the patina of a painting drawn with the charcoal. Where will mix the life, death. Between the white and the black, calling the gray lament of a voice extirpating gold. From one day filled of torpor. Of a painted sky of dull colors. The small details of the day will be forgotten, the noises, the cries, the fear, the complaint, the last moaning. Insolate it silence of the vacuum will be essential then after ultimate shaking. Leaving bitter a cross to remember yesterday.
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J'aime ce qui est gothique, ce qui est romantique, je vous présente mes textes et mes photos. I like what is gothic, what is romantic, I present my texts and photos Steffan Urell
