To Fall in Love with the Painting of Elizabeth Veronica

Res: (Painting: Piano with Rose Petals by X-xCharryBlossomx-X) Site:

Res: (Painting: Piano with Rose Petals by X-xCharryBlossomx-X)


                The tragic notes echoed within a person’s head – fading and fading until a new tune was played in a dark minor key.  Someone must have her hands finely sculpted by the divine heavens for the way the way the fingers danced on top of the ivories of black and white was so delicate, as if she was caressing something fragile. It was a beautiful cry of the piano. No, it was her beautiful cries.

                However, teardrops did not luster while they flowed down her cheeks for there was no light. She was a prisoner of the dark- vowed to play this tragic tune forever. The chords of agony whispered an eerie in repetition. First it was minute, and then grew louder, and louder – the timeless pain of the piano haunted him. Louder and louder – until he shrieked to get out from the inescapable dream.

HE HAD BARELY THE IDEA of why he screamed despite continuously waking up in the middle of the night, insomniac, because of a ghoulish music he had never heard consciously. But there was something that kept him from cursing the bittersweet sensation of his nightmare. Inside this darkness of his dream he always sought the beauty of those delicate fingers, he always expected the breathless delight of the sight of her face. Inside the darkness he felt like he had seen the figure, he felt like he had the nocturnal eyesight to remember every exact detail of her entire being.


He stood up and went outside the labyrinth of his room to the haven and paradise of his work space- a world full of pastels and paints and canvasses, an asylum of strokes of brushes and shades of charcoals. He lit up the candles that poised at the ceiling through a hanging candle-holder to irradiate the room from this vast darkness. An empty space of vast white blankness postured in front of him. He grabbed a pencil and his mind remembered the minor keys, his ears received each note of cries of the caged goddess. His hands were as delicate as hers, only his was sculpted by the divine heavens to sketch and paint.

He closed his eyes and let the dream drift once more inside his unconscious thoughts. The minor keys started to sing once again. She was continually playing the tragedy of the caged divinity as her teardrops slid through her cheeks. Little by little, the song started to grow loud. The tragedy played fast- like a deer chased by the lion out of the savannas. Her fingers never slipped. She never failed to enter the rhythmic pattern. The dynamics was perfectly executed although as she played was a grief- a helpless depression that she will never had the glimpse of the light ever again.


     But the darkness started to fade and although the dark was still unreasonable, she could see how her fingers danced on top of the ivory keys and she was astounded. She could feel a slight sensational itch at her arms, as if something furry, like a brush was slipping through her body.


     The music continued its bellow yet she was starting to be aware that her hair lied at her bare back. The big golden curls were like the rippling ocean as the sun was starting to sleep.  The notes repeatedly created the echoes within his head and she felt how the brush tingles her naked body- an hourglass made of white porcelain shone along the little beams of light.


He made the most subtle strokes on every detail. It was as if she was really alive. Every line of her eyebrows was cleanly trimmed. Each of the strokes of her lashes was curled with fashion. Even the number of the freckled imperfection on her cheeks was counted, seven. Her beauty, however, was not of the earth- it was celestial.


His brush of fine fur designed her collarbones, a gentle angle of femininity. Some of her hair hid the carnation nipples from her well-round breasts. Her eyes of silver reflected how her fingers danced on every key of the piano. Her lips of scarlet red finally showed the perfect sadness she was feeling. Her teardrop then, glimmered on the full light.


He woke up, not because of the splatter of red paint on his chest, but because of the melted wax that dropped from the candles, looking at him with defined awe and amazement. The sun was nearly sleeping. He slept through the entire day. Genius, he uttered to himself as his eyes fixed at the canvas.


Startled, the canvas was empty, aside from the piano inside a room that was well lighted in incandescence. No goddess was there. No beauty was left to marvel upon. She was lost, she was lost.


He thought that he was just dreaming once again when he heard the minor key. However, the tune was different, it was ecstatic. The sound was in definite fastness with excitement, not with a haunting thrill. The dynamics was not of screams but with an incontainable delight. The goddess was untamed.

He followed the mellow happiness of the tune.  And within the room of the grand piano was her; a naked beauty with finely sculpted fingers for dancing above the ivory keys black and white.


     She kissed him, more than that of mere thanks. Her virgin lips so soft met his with passion, with heavenly romance. He covered her with the gossamer and satin, held her hand and there they danced.


The sun died. And the incandescence of the room of the grand piano lit up. No music was needed, no tone and no rhythm was needed. The minor song had an eerie within their minds and through it their feet swayed. A music that only their ears can hear…


He felt her warmth. He felt the smoothness of the brush’s kiss on her skin. Her warmth, why is it so scorching?  He felt a blister, and with a final spin of her dance she fell without consciousness. He smelled something burning, and cursed out loud as he remembered something.  He carried her weight, caressing her in his delicate arms as she was a fragile piece of a song. He sprinted while she was in his arms, through the labyrinth of hallways, unto his haven of work space.


Inside the scorching heat of the room’s light he found the canvass, melting with the flame that engulfed everything. He cursed out loud; the woman on his arms dripped the melting paint that burns him, although he never cared. The minor key played inside his head with the grieving death, the tragic music echoed within his chambers.  The chords of agony whispered in an eerie repetition until the fast rhythm raced along with the tears that his eyes ignited.


His lips met the warmth of her carnation lips, not of happiness, not of romance, not of thanks, but with adieu. He whispered her name and there they lied no longer.


At the burning canvass, the dynamics of the playing piano shrieked.  The minor keys played over and over again like a chant. But there she did not play the piano. There he did not paint the great Elizabeth Veronica. Inside that canvas was the melting figure of a man and a woman, dancing along with the music only their heads could hear.




cameron lancaster


Res: (Painting: Piano with Rose Petals by X-xCharryBlossomx-X)



perhaps soul-mates


(a myth fragment of memory)


            Inside this darkness, a void where we were considered as celestial beings is a perfect solidarity of just her and me. We were contented on how the infinite emptiness succumbed us, for we have the only thing we desired.


She twined her entire being on me and I felt the exact temperature of my own body, for we were one. We were mere souls, bodiless, ageless. We were ignited by the passionate sparks of fire. We were in between of being in existence and myths.


Out of nowhere, I could hear two beats. The fire formed a heart of our mere existence. Two hearts, two beats: a shouting alarm that pain was starting to corrupt our souls. I could feel how fast was the beating of her heart was. She was afraid of the inevitable fact that no longer existed one soul- there were two.


From the sudden sound of the beating heart, there came the crawling roots of veins and arteries; creating a definite symmetry of our shape. No longer were we bodiless as well. The crawling roots grew and grew until how she twined around me was there no longer, like how we were not a soul but two, like how we were not bodiless but with mere shape. The change poisoned us.


The only thing left twined were those fingers unto mine. We held each other tightly- a promise from soul to soul that it is through the exact fitting of our fingers in the spaces in between is how we would know the story of how two celestial beings were made for each other.


We formed minds in order to response on whatever is destined to happen, as well as to remember every exact detail of this cosmic myth. We formed lips to finally feel how we both tasted like addictive ambrosia and remember the sensation. We formed these lungs to count each breath that was left of us inside this infinite darkness, for any count of breath now like those seconds of time will lead to seeing the lights once again: a blinding flash that will hinder us from looking for each other in a new void of lost souls. We finally formed our eyes, and for an exact millisecond I was given the chance to see how she was formed- ageless no longer.


Our eyes locked on each other like pathways back to this void where only we could share and remember. But there were mists fogging up her eyes; her invulnerability was defied. I uttered the only phrase I could think of- a puff of air from my lungs, through my vocal tract, to her ears. “We will find a way.”


The final breath inside this void has come. We were to breathe in the air of the land of lost souls now. Two vortexes created a vacuum that pulled both of us with indefiable strength: like two poles of the magnet. It was the most devastating tornado.


Little by little, we lost the grip of each other’s fingers. Fate was finally playing with us like an amused child. Ironically the mightiest we hold on each other were through our smallest fingers- a childish pinky promise that we will do anything it takes to finally be twined astronomic bodies once again, although our strongest twining fingers finally unknotted.


I shouted her name out loud, she was doing the same. However, I couldn’t remember the name I uttered. The story began to blur that I even forgot how she looked as a mortal, how her eyes were fogged by mists, how her lips tasted like ambrosia. What did I tell her again? …to… Who is she? …to… Who am I?


With the last fragment of my memory, I promised myself as I was nearing the eye of the cruel, oh cruel vortex.  I will seek her, even if it takes a lifetime, and another, and another.


Then everything became a myth.


cameron lancaster

(written: 02-23-14)

“To Assemble Alphabet Soup”


What if we’d finally grown old?

I’d still play our song on the piano

Until my fingertips go numb.

Again and again I’ll play our song

For you to remember every note.

Again and again I’ll whisper Three Words,

Even if you can’t hear me say anything.

What if our knees finally get weak?

I’d still carry you an afternoon at the park,

Until we tumble against the fuillemortes.


Again and again I’ll walk with you

For you to remember the steps we’ve taken.

Again and again I’ll whisper Three Words,

Even if you can’t hear me say anything.

What if, in winter, we’d catch a cold?

I’d still cook this alphabet soup for you

Until I sneeze too loud.

Again and again I’ll cook for you

For you to get well, never mind myself.

Again and again I’ll whisper Three Words.

Even if you can’t hear me say anything.

And what if I’m the one who couldn’t hear?

I’d never eat the alphabet soup

Until I couldn’t get over this cold.

Again and again I’ll refuse to eat it,

For you to understand the Three Words I need to say.

Again and again I’ll assemble these noodles

Even if it’s far-fetched-

Us growing old together.


-cameron lancaster

(written: 02-22-14)

Res: (Illustration:
everyday love- the art of nidhi chanani


lone tree in a galaxy far far away

“Someday, I want to reach the moon and the stars,” she said all of the sudden as we laid our backs on the hill’s grass mat, under the mahogany tree that had a curve on its trunk, as if dancing along with the cold breeze of the starlit sky with a splash of dark-blue veiling the sweet atmosphere.

She held her right hand above the skies and I watched as she pretended to hold the crescent moon, painted with grey and silver.

She was so innocent and her eyes were full of wonder. Her pale skin was illuminating as touched by the moonlight. Upon her deep breaths, I could hear her life-long wish, even though it was an obvious impossibility to grasp something ethereal by hand.

Yet as the stars started to fall from night to night, I could as well witness how strands of her hair do the same thing. The moon grew lighter and lighter as well as her skin, until one day, she was also a celestial being.

If ever I would have a chance to carve a marble, I would form a giant crescent moon right next from this now-dead tree of curved mahogany. along its branches, I would tie stars of different sizes as they glow and swivel through the strings that will keep them from falling. At least by this way, it could be possible to sway a hand upon a thing that you merely could not touch, even though it would be too late for her because by now, she’s already a part of the night sky.

-cameron lancaster

(written: 08-01-13)

“On Having a Pluviophile Girlfriend”


She holds her hands in midair as if to pray;

Trying to catch a handful of wishes she can not hold.

How those sweet heavenly tears race through her fingertips,

Acting as if she would never catch a cold.

She whispers how she danced as a child,

Her pink pajamas wet with rain and mud.

Says she loved the tiny twinkles, singing so mild.

A music of calmness and peace, rushing through her blood.

She loved to sing while the noise hits the roof;

Either a key Higher or Lower, she never cared

For the rain was louder than her squeaks.

Then we laughed, a childish giggle shared.

It was never a sin to forget an umbrella or a coat,

With her, happiness is when she kisses the rain,

As fingertips twined, while droplets create puddles-

until the sun Screams again.

-Cameron Lancaster

(written: 02-14-14)