Melancholy
Melancholy of the colors deer of the autumn. Strike my heart of an unhappiness which reasons. Like the choked sound of a complaint. Forever extinct. Under the livid gleam of the moon. Bathing my sorrows which do only one. With the forced anxiety of a wolf. Wounded at the bottom of its hole. Fire of straw. Of a heart which weakens. Virgin of any hatred. Driven out forever its veins. Sempiternal sentinel. Leaving in dream eternal. A trace of love. For single always. Melancholy of the colors deer of the autumn. Strike my heart of an unhappiness which reasons. Like the single signal. Of a fatal pain. Girl of my initial loves. That your frail fingers. Erased on my body of Punchinello. Slashed of my ways. Between beautiful and ugly one. Unavowed traveller. Of my dark last. That your fired being. Wants for always erasing. Melancholy of the colors deer of the autumn. Strike my heart of an unhappiness which reasons. Like the half-light. Of a consent which sinks. Under the tin horizon. Last day before the following day. Tinted red sun of the summer. Cheerfulness Impresses. That I never could skim. That you promised to reveal me. Carrying for always the lapse of memory. Of my melancholy.
Lire la suiteThe door of blood
A glowing sky for a last hesitation of the day. Dying out on the door of blood. Before the night does not extend on the mounts and the valleys. Forsaking the heart of the alive ones. Recovering shroud of the evening the palpitation blown. Pressed to enter on other side of the leaves. To protect itself from the growing cold. Recovering the emaciated bodies. Sauntering in the large mob of the circle of the life. Forever ravaged. Running up against the door of blood. Crashing to pieces itself with the remainders of regrets. Momentary vagrants of so much of years wasted to scorn. Curve of time while believing in immortality. Intoxicating poison. Being distilled in the veins. With this transitory vision to be stronger than all the sorrows. Leaving the traces of their scratches on the carmine of the door of blood.
Lire la suiteDo I still have enough lights in me able to move you?
Do I still have enough lights in me able to move you? As in this first evening, lost in the black. Finding on the emaciated silhouette of the trees the signs of a life full with hope. Imagining these words able to bandage your evils into blowing on the colors of your memory. The dust of the years deposited by the trouble of despair. Who forever will not be left. Contrary, I believed. The time of a few welcome days. Fallen from one comet to the papered drag of flowers flights to the field of our hopes. That we made fade in the mummified vase of our decline. Choking the banality of our sufferings. With the cruel vacuum of the skeleton of so much of absences. Deeper than the abortion of our fertile thoughts. Who gently bring us closer to the tomb. Forts of these signs before runners. Of a great misfortune. That we feel to come without managing to contain it. Do we only want? I lie you. You lie me. Sentences with the contracted bodies of words added dismembering with the meaningless ends of thoughts. Flying away on the wings of an incense. Lit with the sky in the form of last wish. To believe that we could still be happy?
Lire la suiteTo the sources of the life
To the sources of the life, we will go on an air of violin or accordion. Waltzing between the claws of death. The heart fired with the idea to bathe. Plunging as of the insane ones. In scintillating water recovering of gold. Our dreams syphilitics to be itself knocked with the fissured doors of our infirmities. Charged with so many brittlenesses. So often tested. With the slow rhythm of the musical box which made us dance. Much further that the summer. On the worn floor of a ground where we turn since so a long time in round. To the sources of the life, we will go on an air of violin or accordion. Fleeing the mechanical daily newspaper of the stereotyped waltz which we repeat. Without another project that of knowing to trample it eyes in the abandonment. With the listening of the thunder of this war which mud inside. That we know if little to project outside. Reinforcing the yoke to be exploded. To release itself from all these uselessnesss which immured us. Forever, for good. To the sources of the life, we will go on an air of violin or accordion. The head elsewhere, drunk of happiness. In order to arrive per hour. For, the first time. Able to divide together the honey and the blood of our faith. Deprived of all that kills to us. Energy naked. Feet in the ground, the hands full of mud, the tears running. Of this hatred rises to have lost such an amount of time. To react, act, to flee. Leaving without regret behind us the field strewn with the corpse of our lapses of memory. Of which most extremely. That which bites. Fire curving the iron of our lives. This faculty to forget the identity of what we were. The breathing of the roots of our passions. To the sources of the life, we will go on an air of violin or accordion. Parties with the reason. Single not to turn out more in badly. To seek in the labyrinth this exit which will not come. And that finally we do not want. To have understood well too late that we loved. Without another concession to remain faithful to our union.
Lire la suiteIn you, was written the fatal screen
The pearls of blood roll on the ground. With one in the unslung ball of an orchestra without partition. Scattering like the insane ones. Dancing the saraband of our abandonment. Eaten by your demons. Hung at the end of a cord tended to hang to you. Without pity at the moment to complete you after you to have devoured. You could not understand. In you, the evil slept. Insidious of the animal coiling itself in the contaminated internal organs of your insanity. In you, was written the fatal screen. Of a rupture poisoning our connection. Absorbed in the depths of an insipid torpor. Anaesthetized by the venom of your malignant. Papering your thought of their dreams unfinished, impossible to consume. Drawing aside us one of the other to us to quarter. A tear with the taste of rupture. Breaking the symbols of our culture. Ridge of complicity, relativity on standby of a perfect world. Idea given birth to in the one night dreams of summer. Passed to dream, to embrace themselves. Evaporating in the heat wave your to rough-hew where your madness wished that you burn yourself. You succumbed to the facility. Temptation. Of an easy smile in one moment of desire. Forgetting cement of our relation. You lost yourself. Setting with naked. Crying a completed past. In the middle of a crowd of devils to the forked languages. Scandalmonger on your untimely sensitivity. Why will I save you? By pity. Of you? Of me? That would not have any direction. I think it. In you, the evil slept. Insidious of the animal coiling itself in the contaminated internal organs of your insanity. In you, was written the fatal screen. Of our history that in future the person will not mention, will not listen. Too Much pathetic, if evil. Hung at the end of a cord, thrown in the false commune of forgotten feelings. Fissure leaving this insidious trace to the taste of flaring. Just good to be burned in the ashtray of what was the idea of a couple which liked.
Lire la suiteThe circle of time
Struck whirling wind come from slownesses of time. So far the memory cannot know any more. So near that one can see more. Knocked at any hour on the world and its roundnesses. Flee the impassive sky with the morbid clouds. Escape honey from our lives around the circle of time. Whirling in a stammering of memories. Ultimate dreams of our last oaths. Pivots for kasher our miseries. Not to die. Stupidly, plugged, carried by the wind. Traversed our blades sighs. Testifying that one breathes. Affirming that one can conquer. Time and wind. Hugging in a yoke of feelings. Impotent to extract the sap and blood from it. Running around the circle of time. Labyrinth in which one evokes a firmament. To make seeming. To be content. Disabused. To avoid being corrosive. Without listening. To knock the hours fleeing. Not being able to stop them. Too much quickly carried by this wind. Sweeping emerged surface. Our accidents. Flee the impassive sky with the morbid clouds. Escape honey from our lives around the circle of time. Ultimate combat of each day. To gain a new turn. In the large magic horse-gear. Where we all are plunged. Swimming. Not to drown. Suffocating. To avoid running. Under the vague heinous one of time. Slapping impertinence to believe in eternity. This whole never. Or with this adulterated idea. Getting drunk of the alcohol of so many missed days. That one can cut down. So easily. Scalpel of the lapse of memory. Magic of a tool. Who equips the beautiful one and the ugly one with false clothes. Factitious decoration hiding the slow beat of a guillotine putting rhythm into the pulsations of time. Cutting heads falling while impaling itself in the disastrous circle years.
Lire la suite
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
