Unto thee, my sweet unknown.
Thee, the one exceedingly unborn:
return, save me from myself.
Save me from all else.

The blank documents taunt,
the empty notebooks stare
(an anathema, their glare).
The former canvas of life –
the tree of autophobia.
The once ink of providence –
the murky oils of solitude.  

Greased fingertips massage sullen temples.

Wrinkles in a forehead, the canyons of suffering.

Countenance is a sort of poetry.

Our unique despair is something to be embraced as our own.

Agony environs identity.

A pleading surrogate serenity.

I need inspiration. I desire sincerity.
I want perspiration. I crave vulgarity.

So dearly, do I miss thee.
The soul murmurs.

The entirety of being trembles.
Isolation is neither romantic or lyrical.

In your absence, life is utterly colorless.

The sunrise lacks sensation.  

Honey a deficient nectar.

Love is a word.


A forest with no scent.

A garden with no color.

Lips with no sweetness.

Velvet with no comfort.

Nature with no sound.

I beg of you, muses:

return what it is you took.

Purge me from the purgatory,

release me along with my book.

Tony Blau Veldt, 12/26-12/28/2016