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Modern Romanticism

The aspect of romance, divided between the heartening and the thoughtful.

Poem – “A September Storm” – First Ten Stanzas – 7/29/2019

July 29, 2019
romanticindeed

Beauty has marked my way,
By dismembered flesh.
This is a tale of remembrance,
To one loss, that pined my heart.
One that left me aching,
One that left me wanting.

Oh, father. When shall you return?
Grief has left me with stains

Of the countless struggles beneath swaying grass,
And petals that fall to my hands,
Leave me to count the steps, if you may.
Leave me, for you’ve felt not the need to stay.

No blame, upon not even the sickness,
I am only in mere longing, from your absence,
Your guidance, a shelter that was so aware,
To the shadows I cast from myself.
To the faces that seem to forget,
I hold upon my throne a note that I’ve kept:

One note that reads,
“There is much challenge to overcome,

Much to see, and much not to believe,
There is much wisdom to know,
And much more not to show,
Nor to share, nor to care.”

I had believed until now, that the world deserves promise,
I had believed that the many smiles were true,
And until I grew to know, that there’s deceit,

Among faces swollen with pride,
Among hearts said to be alive.
And, among the rest, there we have infant apples.

Few would dare to show themselves,
In a world so unkind, as kind.
Few would dare to realize the waking tension
That bellows the flames around their mark,
Into the forests or meadows
Of either Heaven or Hell.

We live, as we are, under skies gray and barren,
With a wilderness as our hearts,

Solid and strewn in the world’s deceit.
And I have lost the guidance.
I’ve become among it, the deceit and the swelling tension;
Fires and waters, making the earth spark and shimmer.

Go well with it, we have faced kingdoms and death.
Of grief and pangs of anger, of emperors beheaded.

Of despair, confusion, and the overcoming
Of a manufactured fame.
We were never the ones to earn the world’s trust,
As like anyone, whose purpose is it.

We were organic in our compelling,
And makeshift in our failings.

As humans, we felt the urge to bereave
Over that which we hold close
To bosoms and hearts,
When the latter may never start.

It is winter, and upon this season,
Cold compels me to draw close

The numbness.
The havoc winter brings, to others,
Shall bring comfort, upon me.
And never will I find beauty to be a cause.

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