Romance, in thy very eyes,
How devilish are those very tresses,
That lash thy keenest neck,
That raises to even keener eyes.
I have perception to see thy wickedness,
And a mark I’ve burned into thy skin.
Where would God tell us to roam,
When in this embrace?
We have failed among Saints, who had watched
Our faltering.
We failed God in His expectancy.
I wish for being a King
Upon your lakes, and your sands.
I wish for you to be a Queen,
Who harbors the next population,
To commit warfare on those different.
Romance, in our very eyes,
And two faces that are within a mirror.
Sorrow clings to your lips,
While disgrace drives into my abdomen.
I want a world to find us as a muse,
For the widest plagues to be spread.
Misery has its own color,
That color is the crimson on your cheeks,
And the futility of my perception.
I feel those who say otherwise
To this love,
And I say, “Do not, as it is not your judgement!”
No judgement is allowed for our pathetic union
But mine, as I am the one who swallowed my words.
Modern Romanticism 