Lamentation Poem Novels & Stories

By his side, Emily fought back her tears as well. Roxanne was slowly leading everyone to an abyss, one she had created herself and for herself. His admiration for her grew. When she threw her head back and forth with so much power, Lancelot felt something stir inside of him. She looked and felt like a dream. A figure of a strong, bitter and still free spirited woman she was only imagining. Henry Purcell's 'Dido's Lament' came next, barely seconds after the Beethoven classic. Now, Lancelot knew he was sinking into her abyss as well.

“You can’t leave me like this. Not again. We fought for this life. We promised.” With a sudden jolt, the weight of loss crashed over me, pulling me down into an abyss of anguish. I fell to my knees, the ground cold and unforgiving beneath me, but I felt nothing but the raging storm inside my chest. Hot tears streamed down my face, blurring my vision, each drop a painful reminder of the love I had once again lost.

The crushing weight of her misery, the burden of her fractured memories, threatened to shatter her delicate soul. Through gasps and choked words, Faith's voice quivered with profound sorrow and unfulfilled longing. Every syllable she uttered was saturated with the yearning to fill the void within her, to piece together the fragments of her past. Her plea for remembrance, for the restoration of her identity, reverberated through the air, carrying the depth of her desperation.

Only cars and cars were in sight as it more looked like a parking lot. She started crying loudly as she knew no one is here to listen to her loud sobs. She can pour her heart out. Covering her face with both hands, she let the tears flow endlessly. Her life was hell even though she was trying to imagine it as heaven. Men and men! Everywhere!

Even at the death bed she still thought about him. A tsunami of emotions crashed into his being, causing his whole world to crumble like ancient ruins. The solid ground beneath his feet, betrayed him, shifting like loose sand in a volatile desert storm. Each breath he took encompassed a flurry of overwhelming sensations, as if a whirlwind of conflicting emotions were vying for dominance within his chest. His quivering lips parted, releasing a tremulous breath that hung in the air, mirroring the fragile state of her. His body succumbed to the unbearable weight of despair, forcing him to collapse onto his knees, akin to a marionette with severed strings. The weight of the world, or rather, the

The birds sang in the background, giving the environment a romantic touch. "You know every time I look at you I am reminded of one of the poems by Nicholas Gordon. He's my favorite poet." "Really?" "I love reading poems and a friend recommended his poems during college. One of his poems touched my heart and every time I read it, I feel like it was written on me." "Do you remember it? Tell me how this poem goes." Damien unwrapped his hands and used them to sit straight beside her. He played with some strands of her straight hair and began, "Okay, so the poem is named I USED TO BE COMPLETELY CRUEL AND HEARTLESS. And it goes like this:

I crumpled in her embrace: "Sing me with the song of days past, Yola - so that we may please the ancestors, whose sacred ground we have raped." Yolanda's brown eyes flashed amber: "Then I shall sing the dead." Her melody poured forth, eviscerating, yet quiet, like a tender morsel of perfumed, candied roses, baked with apple pie: Sanctuary of autumn, a cairn of stones. Death is not proud, Death goes as a beggar dirty for alms outside the county parish, you pass by the sorrel-haired youth, and his laconic eye bespeaks a hunger, a timeless cave of wonders.

So they just listened and watched. “….oh my friends…my friends…forgive me..that I live and you are gone…there’s a grief that can’t be spoken…there’s a pain goes on and on…..phantom faces at the windows…phantom shadows on the floor….empty chairs at empty tables…where my friends will meet no more…oh my friends…my friends..don’t ask me….what your sacrifice was for….empty chairs at empty tables…where my friends will sing ….no more…” She ran her fingers along the table as she walked out of the room and back to the piano. It would take a while to get everyone together. Her heartache continued as she mind-linked Dylan

A song of despair. It slithered through the network, not as an attack, but as a poison. It didn't try to break our will; it tried to infect it. In the great hall, the hopeful hymn wavered. The voices didn't stop, but they grew strained. The lyrics of endurance became harder to remember. A mother singing for her children felt a sudden, crushing wave of doubt-What future am I singing for? An elder's voice cracked on a note of grief for fallen friends.

"Come on. That old hag smells like mothballs. She doesn't hold a candle to you!" Tears blurred my vision and dripped onto my hand. I wiped them away, steadied myself, and took out my phone to take photos of the messages.