D

[edit on 26-5-2010 by Maddogkull]

D ...is for Dharma, the death of the delusional you
D.... is for Daniel swept away by a plane in the London rain
D....is for dancing at midnight , beside the subway train.

reply to post by Maddogkull


D... I loved
her kisses.
The way she
put her hand
under your shirt,
and touched your
heart.
When she picked
you up in her Volvo
She always had
pills and wine,
laughter, music
and a way to make
you feel
alive.

She married
a man that
owned race
horses.
I used to see
her at the track
and she would
smile.

Delighted in her delirium, she destroyed all that was dear. Defensively, I deadened my emotions, and ignored her dirty deeds and desperately looked for what was good and pure inside her despicable heart. Mind numbingly debilitated, I remained deaf to her debasements and debaucheries, as if decaffeinating her destruction, I pretended I was debonair.

She once declared her love for me, in that typical decasyllabic, and deconstructive way of hers, and my heart skipped, then stopped, as if I were dead. Like the deceased, I ceased to hate her as I so often did, and smiled in a devilish way, knowing full well her deceit was demonstrable, but it was so much what I desired to hear, it was worth forsaking my deafness to hear it. Of all the decencies in an obscene world, that moment of delusion, that second of civility, where she declared her love for me, was what decided my fate, as the decimals of her soft, but ever shrill coo-cooing and caw-cawing, danced around my soul like the color red tripping the light fantastic, like diligent wavelengths do.

Decades after that moment, or maybe it was just an hour or so, I decided that romantic deceits were not enough to decipher the encrypted heart of demons and demented souls, yet even so, I remained docile and dearly waited for some sort of declassification of her top secret, for her eyes only, devoid and destitute heart. If I could have declawed her, defanged her, I would have, but then would she be the one I still love and adore today? If I be so disinclined to depart, and dissolve a disinterested love affair, where would I go, and whom would I love then?

Decisions, decisions, decisions, I decided to stay, and in those desperate hours, or maybe they were decades, I delighted in her delirium, and we danced across the color red like dark demons, laughing and swirling, decrying our deepest innermost deeds and thoughts, dedicating our distaste for each other to the defamation's of love, and we let desire be one with debauchery, and settled for the defaulting defeasabilities of defeat.

I decided to be dedicated to the D's . . . when determining the detail
demanded, . . describing . . . D.

In defense of D, I remember her as a desirous devil of delight, dependent
on no one. Do I deny a decisive declaration of love for her ? I do not.

Depressed now at her departure, I dwell dimly in the dimensions of distaste,
for any other woman.

I dread dreaming of D. A different designer drug . . . definitely.

Together we dined, danced, and delighted.

Oh D, you were a darling.

Damn your death.