All Revolutions Vanish
Each age’s rebellion becomes autumn’s wilt.
Revolutions vanish, perfumed with midnight's regret,
A passing parade of fever, of poison and kiss,
Their pageantry dissolves in perfumed decay.
Yet the soul remains beset by old serpents of bliss, in the velvet gloom where old banners rot.
We taste the wine of lost ideals and flame,
The sweet, obsessive cycles of yearning,
Twist, then wither in the hollow of shame. No clock can number the ache of return,
For every dawn carries vestiges of rot,
Each age’s rebellion becomes autumn’s wilt.
Dead petals, revived by the promise forgot. Beneath these perpetual seasons of revolt.
The heart bends, bruised by its own delirium,
Not in the linear lie of years do we measure,
But in the endless perfume of suffering’s continuum.
About the Creator
Darryl Houston Smith
Writer & Poet. Lowell, MA.
Dark Romanticism & Noir.
"Hell is solid. Hell is warm."
Dissecting the fraud of eternity
www.darrylhoustonsmith.com
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La Crêperie mon ami
La Crêperie mon ami by Darryl Houston Smith The Parisian twilight enveloped Montmartre like a beloved velvet cloak, softening the edges of the cobblestone streets and illuminating the quaint storefronts with a warm, inviting glow. For Jan and Darryl, this particular evening was not just another night in Paris; it was the night—their final farewell, for now, to the city that had, over the past week, rewoven the intricate tapestry of their love story. They wandered aimlessly, hand in hand, through the winding streets, passing artists hawking their wares near Sacré-Cœur and meandering through the hushed elegance of residential alleys. Their conversations flowed as effortlessly as the Seine, touching on shared memories, future dreams, and the quiet joy of simply being together. A familiar comfort settled between them, a deep understanding that transcended words, nurtured by the magic of Paris. As the air grew cooler, a sweet, buttery scent drifted toward them, beckoning them into a small, unpretentious storefront. "La Crêperie mon ami," Jan read aloud, the words rolling off her tongue with a newfound French lilt she'd picked up during their trip. A gentle tug on Darryl's hand led them closer. The crêperie was a charming hole-in-the-wall, its single window displaying a handwritten menu and promising golden-brown perfection. Inside, a jovial man with flour dusting his apron flipped crêpes with practiced ease. There was a warmth to the place, an authenticity that spoke of generations of simple, delicious artistry. “What are we feeling?” Darryl asked as he settled his arm around Jan’s waist. Jan scanned the menu. “Something decadent. Something… Parisian.” Her gaze landed on a small, hand-scribbled addition: Crêpe flambée au Grand Marnier. “That. Definitely that.” They ordered, and a few minutes later, the crêpe arrived, folded neatly on a small paper plate, its edges crisp and its center soft. The air around them hummed with the rich, citrusy aroma of Grand Marnier, freshly caramelized sugar, and a hint of something warm and nostalgic. They stepped away and, ever so slightly out of time, just then the two of them discovered their corner of the street surprisingly deserted. It was an unusual quiet for Montmartre—a moment of precious solitude in a city known for its vibrant bustle. The distant murmur of city life served as a soft hum, a backdrop to their own intimate symphony. There was no need for elaborate conversation or grand declarations. The simple act of sharing this sweet treat in this quiet corner of Paris felt more profound than a thousand spoken words could ever convey.
By Darryl Houston Smith2 months ago in Poets
Getting Serious About Comedy (Part I)
If I were asked to remark on my life and the childhood that paved some road leading me to this point, I would have to say something about all the funny people who surrounded me for the last 26,872 days (and counting). Somewhere along that road, I became a big fan of laughter and the comedy that spawns it – and, I mean not only my own laughter, but the laughter of others, some of which I have actually been responsible for inducing.
By John Oliver Smith4 days ago in Humor
Comments (1)
Beautiful imagery. “No clock can number the ache of return.” That hits. 👏🏼