Your rarity, on thine loving lips,
Lay kisses, upon where I sit,
Go crawl in misery, on death ships,
Bask in embers, of fires lit.
I would watch, those hands, cover tears,
To imitate, a sleeping body,
You could face, the dawn as night,
Sink under trauma, of the years,
But searing embers, raise the study,
Of lifeless voids, piercing blight.
For the embers, awoke my sense,
Tears slide, off a pale cheek,
The want of joy, is my defense,
Those eyes, of sadness speak.
I have written volumes, in your name,
Scorn is drowning, your tongue,
Misery’s grief, are those words,
In each tress is mournful shame,
Robes of priests, you are clung,
Wrath for children, grief affords.
Modern Romanticism 