Modern Romanticism

Death, had wept, before me,
In, the feeble form, of lust.
She, who never prospered,
Until Sorrow, showed her up.
God, kept his words, alone,
For tears to sweep, below.

She asked for sweetness, of death,
Though gave me no love, of flesh.

Holiness, that I worshipped,
I am stricken, before death.
Torn, from my severed soul,
Oh, Lea! The sin you kept.
One Grisly, Pale Hand,
Falls over, the edge.

White tides, of Lea’s light,
Were opened, at the slight.

Smooth the letters, on parchment,
Drink the fragrant, bouquet.
Pass the soliloquy, to stone,
God’s serenity, in strife.
Here, I’ll hold, Lea’s hand,
Shrouded, by loneliness.

Oh, terrible shame, release me,
God, I beg of you, hear my plea.

When priests, reveal His truth,
I’ll cry for God, once more.
Never to forget, Lea’s stroke,
Lea’s hand, pained my soul.
Above the pages, of hymns,
A cloud hovers, in song.

I tremble, by the weathered nights,
Torn at last, by Lea’s cruel blights.