The wretchedness of there to be
no future nor history
make me drown in your honey
The sugary purple nectar flows in my lungs
this world is not my pedigree
in the abyss of your comforting melancholic ails
I comfort myself for the rapture
which to the daily will be hell
And to me one more for my sadness one spell
I feel the sweetest poison take me away
chalice to my sinister masses
If I could raise thee
long lost lilac lakes
To flood to cast out your marble spirit
Wash all the rubble from this earth
then still we be alone you and me
My disease and my death
In you some angels hide
some sirens feisty willed
and robed spikes of gold and silver
your poison fumes that none my bare
Your awareness softly and frailty stare
into a cold desolate desert opposed to
the flower full of juice and moist
Dew of alertedness
gallow of fear
I find solace only
in this mist in which I to others disappear
The cloud of my thoughts
the smite deeply yearning of my heart
—tristitia languorem
Flommist Tristitia Languorem eats tragedy. They have many names but it doesn’t change much the whole premise of the ideals. Antwerp, Belgium is where home is. It’s time for a fresh start. Copyright © 2023 Tristitia Languorem. Up top: Johan Krouthén, Lake with Boat and Flowering Lilacs (adapted, sort of), 1920.
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