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gothique et romantique


Publié le 27 Juin 2015

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There is a fracture, a word which suffers, a look which endures. The veil of demonized eternity. Where our troubles were stronger than us. In the time continues the pain not to know any more. Understand, wait, receive. Running on the moor as crazy. Lies, quarrels, eternal fights. I do not know any more. I do not seize any more. Where. The wind, the snow of our agonies got lost. There is this soft dream. To watch extinguishing the day fire. I cry by seeing at night arriving. It) carries the hope of dark slowness. Of the shaky body of our love. Running away on the moor in slow movements. Carried by the wings of black butterflies planning their shadows. On the salt and the honey. Of our rags. Scarecrows in ravens. In the big wheatfield which we wanted to grow. For our misfortune, the offspring to have got lost. When, I do not know more? Near a cemetery. Where we put us our illusions in beer. I forgot, I do not want any more. Run after these images of past. Made up by despairs, tinged with this adulterated taste. Not to believe any more. Not to know. That we were alive. Contacting, being amazed. My heart carries this pain. Locked into the crypt of my melancholy. I want to think that you share it. Otherwise, you would have lied to me. Taken hostage my passion. I cannot imagine it. For heaps of reasons. The first one has the smell of the blood of your hooks. In my skin, in my soul crashed. The second is this obsession. To try to find you. I roam in labyrinth of my hell. In addiction of your image. For ever without division. I imagine you witch in the stony heart. Been infinitely in love grey turtledove. I find only the space, the despair, the silence. Without knowing, without understanding the moment. Where we imperceptibly quartered. There is a fracture, a word which suffers, a look which endures. The veil of demonized eternity. Where our troubles were stronger than us. The memory of the whole falls asleep. The night is there so that get up the ghosts. The werewolves. Guarding the dome. Where. My dreams built the mausoleum of your memory. Later the day will be imperative the black. Absolved where lack in my touch your face. Its curves, its inflections, the furrows of your age. Blind person I have only an imagination which goes out. Taken on the ending night. In a day furthermore without you. I hope, I believe. That tomorrow. The fracture with cracks will fill. Sowed behind me. Tracks of the lack of you. A fear. An honor. The breath of eternity. Which sinks into the darkness. Irreparably. For ever.

le sang de la nuit, la naissance de l'ange, decouvrez le dernier roman de steffan urell

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