Thorns of chagrin: A tale of the unloved.

It is this, primeval monument of perpetual sin, hideously engorged with the collateral decadence of the selfish impulse, it is this very heart of mine, the author of maladies, which today gushes the venom of quiet menace. I am not to be cleansed of any vile disinhibition on my part, nor am I to hold any method of artifice, for the womb from which, I have been conceived as 'man' remains putrid. It is is a hopeless notion, this mortal coil, this unraveling of tissue and ligament, to the prolific organ of fallibility. Curse the heart! There was a maiden, a sylph fair as the mazarine night of Bethlehem, and passions exquisite as the draught of Hippocrene. The eloquence of precept, is seldom so divine, as when given the munificent grace of aesthetic endowment, and there has been no true beauty in any dialect of history, that has not evidently evinced, the unfathomable wisdom of the lord in its magnitude. I am rendered obtuse at times, by the deep seated emotions of love, poor desolate love, but I cannot be pardoned of my transgressions. The lady Madeline was lovely, enthusiastic, and youthful. An intellect of untethered breadth, and conspicuous acuteness, saturated in the healthy textures of the Latin text, and the literature of Romanticism. A young Dickinson herself, I fancy she wrote, an impressive calibre of poems from which her eldritch temper, lingered beyond the simple leisure of whim. I remember one in particular, titled the Veil Of Dawn, read,

My soul, vaguely waned,

In the vapid haze, of drowning lights,

Bleaching, the grey of melancholy skies,

Some vestige of colorless anguish, and dystopian nights,

Rendered, an ethereal immaculate white,

Something passionless, and void of life

Illuminating the evanescence of mortal strife,

So that, in death, my soul was reborn and clean of mind

I became enchanted, beyond the ordinary measure, and there remained the strange ambivalence of apprehension and a somewhat pathetic devotion of easy expense. I was hers and only hers and this was my fate. It was an unfortunate time, when in the quiet of the night, as we fondled ourselves with the exclusive hilarity of our amicable rapport, that she glanced at me, with those honeydew eyes, and I felt a yearning desire. It is that of the Berserker, for the crimson of blood. A soft smile flushed her countenance, and she waived her auburn hair from her oval face so that its beauty shone, but then she spoke,

"There is a man, that I love. It shall be a special day for us tomorrow, I want to compose a poem in the name of love. Will you help me?" And with this, I gulped with despair. My body felt as of a cold monolith, and a vague sensation of angst tinged my physiognomy, but I did not wince, indeed not! I grinned, I chuckled, I tore my visage, I threw my arms in wild astonishment, I cursed the Angels with the contemptuous grief that vexed the lover of the maiden Anabelle Lee, but perhaps it was the influence of Satan himself that made me leap onto the lass, and throttle her. She struggled, until, I was finally ridden from her neck, but I could not bear her tears, and so, I fled into the dark, unrequited forevermore.