Modern Romanticism

What would I name, my empire,
Where this David, flies to fire?
To be handsome, or to be cruel,
You’d tease also, of love’s kind rule.

In ample markings, I observe,
The simple art, of highest curves.
What wickedness! In breasts.
Wine for lips, in bitter taste.
Allow, of the listless rest.
In one finger’s, lawful haste.

When noticing, the toes below,
To walk, in untold steps, so slow.
I am allowed, to fill my glass,
By all which flows, into thy mass.

Violet skin, when blushing bright.
Take all to sin, in desperate flight.
Send the priests, fleeing,
All full in hands, to the night.

When thy belly, of palest moon,
Is sweet in seed, in dismal bloom,
There shall come, to lovely sweat,
A shell of love’s, beauty kept.

In contours, I count, each falling tress,
To meager face, of sheer failing youth,
Uncover, each bit, of nestling skin,
In hearing shame, from weary red mouth.

To grip, the waist, of thy body,
Shall be there, for my possession,
To the deep place, of my pity,
Had we sold, our cries to ashes.