I fell with an idleness,
Made to attract the many peasants,
Made to attract my torture,
The despondence and the belittlement.
The upbringing of my guise,
The romance of my mass.
The church with its cross,
Does all to be damned.
It’s all the remains of a shape,
One hung up, like a portrait on the wall,
One of eyes that are listless and heavy,
Woolen and faltering to see,
The unending misery.
There is so much to be aware.
There are the many statues,
That have buried the bases into earth,
They were green with moss,
And red with pride.
They are now altered by hatred,
And the simplest discontent.
My empire of angles,
My wooden cross,
Searches for the nexus,
Of space and time.
My women of their breath,
My men of their dangers,
Have become sheep at my feet,
And have kissed the wrong salvation.
They were wrong to believe,
Though, right to achieve,
The aching burden of companionship,
And the most Hellish of escapes,
Into a paradise most told by Nature,
And its precepts.
I made beauty the shape on this very wall,
This very portrait, that reigns so very tall.
Modern Romanticism 