To remain or flee ?
To remain or flee ? Vis-a-vis your glance ready to like or betray. Preaching truth or the forgery in the softness of your eyes. Where a share of tenderness dozes assassinates which will slip between us two. To believe in you in the point of very giving you of a languorous caress. Before did not leave your claws a painful slap. To remain or flee? To carry by the defect to play with all your whims. Evasive mouse running stripped in near. So near to you that she does not see herself, escaped in his daydream. I like your mysterious, bitter glance. Killing the opened mouth, sharp-edged hooks what likes you. Playing the partition of nice to hum. To better do itself to like. Drowning its share of shade in eyes in love. Escaping to the skies. Crying of the tears the unhappy one. From the top of summits. Watching for the occasion of a new crime. With the ambiguity of this question. To remain or flee? Beyond any reason. You who will never change. See in your eyes the bad glance which you cannot make up. Loan to be liked or betray. You lie as you breathe. However, I like your marvellous, languorous glance. Where a lack of truth hides. Masked by the silence of your absences. Drowned in the large park of the shades where stretch themselves all your nights. Tinted basked in the sun dark images of cries. With the taste salted of your victims on the white of your hooks in a slow anguish. I like this idea of your kindness, you it bad. I have a reason. Going until forgiveness. Finding in your eyes. The force nothing to require them.
Lire la suiteThe end of a world
The door opened violently. Whereas the storm thundered. The wind was engulfed between the badly united stones. In a long complaint. Sky streaking flashes. In the deafening crash of a thunder. Breaking sky and covers over with soil. There was this echo of end of the world. Noise of shoes of horses launched to the full gallop. Fleeing the wave. Evil approaching irremediably carried by the music an organ. Playing solitary in an abandoned vault. Who later will be used as mortuary. With the idea dying woman of a crushed world. On the furnace bridge of its end. Only, without a future. Numbed by its fear of crumbling in a virgin place of benches, the penitent ones. The door opened violently. Whereas the storm bit the eroded stones. That a hand knocked to open, to enter, to precipitate. With the shelter. Last paradise. Resisting the hell of the outside. Throwing the body. Softened of an exhausted woman. To carry the relics of recent last. In which nobody any more believed. Giving at the end of the world the utility all to clean. For all to start again. There were these notes repeated on the keyboard. Hammered to try to resist fate all to give up. The door opened violently. Whereas the storm recited. In a long moaning. The list of all the sins. A woman, only with knees for all to repair. In the heart of the abandoned vault. Forgotten at the bad days. Swept an end of the very close world. Overpowered heavy reproaches. With this single thought. To resist. While hoping to find in the last seconds the way of being saved. While the wind was engulfed between the badly united stones. In a long complaint. Sky streaking flashes. In the deafening crash of a thunder. Breaking sky and covers over with soil. The door opened violently. Illuminating the heart of the vault, its immense tenderness. Before this one does not subside. Leaving this light stolen to the storm like a last hope. To take, seize it like a sword in this evening. For always. A woman, only, with knees will fight protecting the last spark from love.
Lire la suiteThe melancholy of silence
The gum of time passes on memories which are erased. Little by little in an insipid grimace. Woven of the white sons of the lapse of memory. Stretching itself infinitely between gray walls. Making ip the sunlight of a paleness mortal. Behind unfaithful grids. There, where there is no more rebel. Removing their names. Leaving only one sad reason. The hope to wait in vain. That the destiny does not change. Of a heart without a future. Bitter memories of joys deformed under the mincer of the past. Slowly cutting the last pieces of beautiful. Nourishing one unobtrusive present where only the ugly one remains. Plunged with deepest of a tomb. Where the notes of an unfinished symphony fall asleep forever. Not to have had the force more to compose it. Nor will. Incompetent to restore the vacuum which seized the moment when is very precipitated. A cry, a lapse of memory, fear of crossing. The wire on which the memory danced. Energy to seek with deepest of the heart the force to rebound of notes in notes in the joy of a magic music. One moment magic, always. So far. Where nothing was essential throwing on the bottom of the hole. Lapse of memory, not written words of a life. During at the end of the shoddy cord of a ravaged symphony. The gum of time passes on memories which are erased. Little by little in an insipid grimace. Woven of the white sons of the lapse of memory. Stretching itself infinitely between gray walls. Under the bitter complaint of the violins of the winter. Crying the slow escape of time. That nothing any more moderates. That nobody venerates. Shades forgotten on the black ground of the melancholy of silence. Whose nobody seeks the presence. Between the hardened walls of a heart without life.
Lire la suiteThe travel without end
The music of time beats slowly. On standby of you, in front of the window. Black, only open. The music of time strikes patiently. Whereas in me the rise of a violent irritation accelerates. That I then to control. I hate this house in front of which I waited so a long time. To hope. That you kinds of this fold in which you immured yourself. Causing my impatience, only vis-a-vis this always open window pointing out your presence to me. Don’t I know any more who you are? My lassitude, my bitterness ooze on the trouble of your walls. I am not certain any more. To love you, want to wait on standby of you each morning. The music of time wearies me infinitely. Slipping into the throat of the sand glass these grains of days, these seconds carrying my frustration. My insanity. I do not have any more words to say to you even if you presented yourself. I do not have any more admiration. I come by practice, by repetition. Making my trip in front of your house the pilgrimage of my faded years. To have wasted them you to expect, you it phantom of my past. The music of time overpowers me completely. Pointing out each day to me that I trail myself a little more to pass in front of your balcony, I am tired. Of raising the head to hope that you kinds not. Because now, I know it, I come to hate you. I have such an amount of hatred to throw you. Too much late, I understood that your open window is this trap in which you imprisoned me. I put so many years to understand it. It should have been accepted that my reason gives birth to our ashes. In which came to be consumed our tender hours. The music of time slows down in poverty. On this voyage without end which I make each day. Like a demented person. Turning in round in the streets of the city gives of love. Drunk of you, drunk not to find more of exit to this labyrinth which carries out me to you. To love you, crucify you, without reserve, faith, nor law. Between joy and sorrow, resentment and lassitude, ready to bite in our memories to suck their last drops of memory of them. Those which I preserved to celebrate this disastrous day where I would have finally the force not to more come to see you. But, I lie myself. All the time. Not to die. The music of time is repeated magnetically. Without I being able to act. On the irremediably fleeing wire of the years. Until I sink. Like stray, invisible, evaporated you, inaccessible. Finding you forever forgotten in the kingdom of the shades.
Why ?
Why? The one day silence falling asleep in the milky trail of an eclipsing sun. Why? The close-cropped grass extending until the last enlightened regions. Why? Flowers undulating under the light breeze of a half-light momentary. I think of you. Why? A given up, solitary, proud tree. Why? The heat of the day fleeing in a remainder of momentary softness. Why? Clearness being erased for a blackness without light. I think of you. Why? Unexpected, absurd question. Why? I had forgotten you and this evening in my memories you returned. Why? I let to you flee in the drag of a falling asleep sun. Why? This sudden dusty interrogation of the sleep of the years. Why? Not earlier, not later or even never. Why? I think of you. Why? I am overpowered, anxious, am paralyzed by it. Why? My abandonment is similar to this solitary tree. Why? To be afraid of the surrounding vacuum while making trust it. Why? Not to flee by tearing off the roots of this bitter ground. Why? I think of you. Why? Whereas I do not have anything any more to wait nor to hope. Why? With the violence of the culpability. Why? That have you I make. Why? I did not do it. Why? I have if little thought of you…
Lire la suiteWith the listening of the fears of the night.
Going on sand, the slow step. The face whipped by the wind. With the listening of silences of the night. Carried by the howling breath. Remembering. Of these words known as and repeated like oaths. The light of a headlight which shone. In a darkened sky. Pale copy of the colors of the life. Advancing while hesitating. Inhabited by the fear of fled memories. The knocking heart. With this obsession to be only invaded by an engrossing vacuum. The deserted moor, sand as far as the eye can see, sea advancing mechanically. In the distance, the throbbing sound of bells beating with the doors of a terrifying hell. Fear freezing blood, to the infiltrating heart. In a paralysing cold. At the borders of loneliness, knocking on the door of the melancholy. To Be only, to have wished it, finding in the abandonment the force to reappear with the gleam of a candle. Burning. At the top of a headlight, in the padded cocoon of the clouds of night. Progressing with difficulty. Against the whirling wind. To the right headlight like an I. Stiff body. Whipped by the corrosive breath. To approach some humbly. By pushing the door of darkness to know what there is inside. To assemble the steps to one, moistness breathing. Of a tower on it even whirling. Moonbeams marking out a climbing never not finishing.The heart in madness. To resist not to burst, fight to cherish the life. With the gleam of a candle. On it even waltzing in slow and spellbinding movements. Sadly. With the listening of the fears of the night.
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
