Between all stilled forms,
Where tension summons up,
The most felled-upon,
Of sinners.
There is you.
There is you for the statues
That seem to weep.
They shield their eyes,
Unlike you,
Because you only stare,
At their discarded and frozen bodies.
You were loved,
Like the tragedy, made to be,
Made to be the most hellish curse,
Of this newly-won marriage,
And a conquered woman you’ve become,
Like the land that was never touched.
No waves crash the shores,
Upon your cursed form.
No quakes fracture the earth,
Nor the soil, when the birds sing out.
You have a face,
A face that is quick,
To be slow;
By the tears, by the falling rain,
That sinks out from aching eyes,
And from a sickened mind.
My quill seems to dance on these pages,
Painted with white, and they seem to pule,
Over you, and over your death,
You lay in a coffin,
Upright, and stink to the Heavens,
For no one has buried you.
Go love another,
As you have loved me.
Go despise another,
When you could do no other.
Go find another,
To make your room a place of fate.
Go eat the fruit,
That has been soiled by us.
We’ll eat the fruit, dotted with sadism,
And regret; by beauty and by blood.
I saw you,
Among the rotten stones,
Covered by moss,
And stained by soot,
That you are still smiling,
Beneath the horrid and wilting leaves.
Of Autumn, and its fall,
Of Spring, and its newness,
Of Winter, and its white,
Of Summer, and its sun.
I was in love?
Or, was I backed by love?
To the wall, or beyond a gorge,
To the end, where there are collected tears.
Modern Romanticism 