elliotrv

[elliotrv]

(This one is a fun one that I wrote in November. Unfortunately I forgot what day I wrote it. I believe I’d categorize it as a narrative one..?)

Summary: The poem is a personification of the rain itself. It’s easier to interpret than many of my gothic ones.

TW: There is no trigger warning, it is perfectly safe to read!

Title: A RAINY MORN’

It caresses the trees, it kisses my lips,

It’s the droplets— that land upon my fingertips.

I gaze longingly, my eyes follow the clouds,

The beauty they emit when they weep,

Could make even the gods proud.

It soaks my thin clothes— my thick hair,

Oh why must it harness all beauty?

It is the rain that I don’t find fair.

Its music fills the morning air,

It covers the panes in a fresh dew.

Unlike sunsets, it paints the skies—

In a mourning hue.

I love sunny skies,

But I find myself loving the rain too.

Like me, the rain has grown a depressing blue.

Elliot R. Verona

[elliotrv]

Eating some Xmas hersheys rn :))

(This one has a line or two in Russian.)

—Translations—

Title: A Wh*re’s Mistake (Ошибка шлюхи)

Line: “The sacrifice of a mother, the virtue of a god.”

——TW: DEATH, LOSS OF CHILD, SUICIDE——

The wind echoes with malice,

The trees shake with hatred;

Metallic, metallic wafts through the air—

Crimson paints a blanket so fair.

A mother wails for her lost heir,

She cradles a bundle to her breast;

With a newborn life, came a sudden death.

The mother grasps her child tightly,

Her cries fill the cruel, unforgiving air.

The harsh winds swallow her screams,

As do her fleeting breaths.

Жертва матери, добродетель бога.

With the crimson blade,

A mother’s suffering comes to an end.

Elliot R. Verona

[elliotrv]

I can’t describe how happy I am now that I know that someone is reading my writings. I am very grateful..

I wrote this next one for someone special, I’ve been enamored by them ever since we were only children.

“EVER-GROWING EMBERS”

My love for you is but a fleeting ember,

‘Tis a fire that needn’t be rekindled—

I’ve burned for you as long as I could remember.

Ever since we were young,

Ever since our last September.

What could feel like a lifetime,

Could only be but a few seconds.

Allow my love for you to turn to ash,

And create beauty with the remnants.

Water shan’t put out something so dire,

So allow me to take your hand—

And we shall venture into the fire.

You’ve stricken my heart ablaze,

I shall think of you— for all of my life,

You will remain in my thoughts,

For the rest of my days.

Your touch is my fuel,

Your love is my oxygen.

You are a phoenix—

And I, your fire.

-E.R.V

[elliotrv]

Hello! I’m aware that nobody is seeing these. But if there’s still some hope that I will have some folks to enjoy my writing eventually.

This one is about the Salem Witch Trials, the narrator is yet another accused victim. When I was writing this I meant to write about what I would say is a young “witch” who was betrayed by her parents and her community.

“THE GRIEVING WITCH”

The blood trickled down mine pale skin,

I begged him, I begged him to let me be free.

“Thy last breath shall kindle the flames”,

Quoth the arrogant minister. “Nevermore!”

With these pale fingernails of mine,

I run them across the rope that dares to bind,

Mine skin is marked with its sickening presence;

The faces watch, as the fire steals mine essence.

I shriek to the heavens above,

“Why must thee bewitch mine soul?!”

I seek out the faces of mine parents,

The bastardous souls who have raised me.

They shall dance upon my ash,

They shall know my rage.

I look upon them as I taketh mine final bow,

Oh I wonder, whatever would they think of me now?

O, I curse thee,

Thine souls shan’t be forgiven!

O, ye heed my warning,

With mine death— ye shan’t awaken in the morning!

Elliot R. Verona

[elliotrv]

I’m new to this, so I’m unsure of whether I’m doing it right or not. Might just get my s.o to help out. :(

This is called “The Weeping Willow”

Please don’t steal it, I’ll have a mental breakdown lmao.

“THE WEEPING WILLOW”

She comes to me in whispers,

She’s carried by the soft breeze.

Her kisses cover my eyelashes,

When a blanket of snow— paints the trees.

Her name is a lyric, a note,

She’s written in my soul— a book.

Nay, she isn’t one to be seen,

Not by the naked eye.

She is to be seen with feathers of white,

Waltzing within the clouds amongst the sky.

With every sigh comes a caress,

A promise to this heart of mine.

As long as I may miss her,

She will remain in every reflection;

She will remain in my soul,

Where her and I read books once more,

Underneath the willow tree.

Elliot R. Verona