Balance of sorrow.

"Her name shall be Deirdre, and she will be the most beautiful woman in the world. But that beauty shall bring death to many heroes, and much sorrow."
- Deirdre of the Sorrows.

Initially the phrase was ‘ The’ balance of sorrow’. But after a slight chat with a relative friend it struck me that the use of ‘The’ in this situation would be an acceptance of the generic viability of sorrow. Balance shadowed the sorrow. Thus ‘A’ balance of sorrow. The balance was delivered in my head through red-eyed projections.

Tears cut, and stolen from gypsies who were lamenting the loss of dynamic relationships. Relations shared by them.
Shared by them, with their sorrows. Confused purely by the virginity of these vestal, emotive aggravations to their ideas of grief.
The initial moments of sorrow. How plain! How sweet!
Litters of flowers in reds and blacks.
Dirty! Rotting, not just yet. Orange!

The moods:
Engulfed!
Engulfing!
The remnants of the strewn feeling, drawing from the simple multitudes of the aforesaid harsh moments.

2002.

The torture of the limited conscience for the legality of the patriotic serum, dry and driven. The raped song! Drying within the tube light nations images of the west running, and accused of secretly applying fiery balms to divisive wounds. The floods dried it of the acceptance of unattainable ignorance.

Tilting, are the seesaws of the hide and seek game.
Status quo. Irrelevance.
A monopoly of truths, an army of orange flowers, walking below bridges and building criss-crossed shelters. Attempting the emergence of sorrows.

Religion sat on a park bench, religion absorbed, the gifted red. Not asking, nor refusing.
Religion jumped from rooftops, impaled, in perfect unison.

A weighing scale, yielded by the queen of circumstance, crouching behind marked oak chambers. Weighing the rivers of sad memoirs written in bright inks, in the hope of a notice. The balance.

Tears and fears with angel leers.

In their eyes it can be, in their eyes it shifted, sparsely. Balance of such sorrow reflected off the silver glass panes and numb movements. Silting in issued tents. Not asking for comfort or pillows. Nor strong words of love and martyrs. No curtains.
Only macro scopes. Yes! Macro scopes!

The second discussion –

‘A’ balance, rejects the collective sphere of sorrow. ‘The” balance, forgoes the personal experience. Thus the balance I try to elucidate if dwelling in the chasm of these two bi-polar desserts of sorrows. Both eyes see different angles of the light. Collective sight is the aspiration of this piece.