I could see the necessity in wishing to know,
The love I’ve come to commit to my own atrocity.
My beauty, you have exquisiteness in every breath,
And a mark upon your shoulder has been to count,
Each subtle sigh under morning light,
In before I come to share my place near your death.
Love at my left hand, and my hope in the right.
I am a man of many angles,
And many divides to count for too many.
There has been desertion staining our hearts,
And now I find myself wanting.
“For what?” I ask, and then I comprehend it:
I am in awe for the woman who hasn’t rested,
Has been afield in the work of too many men,
Too many droplets of salt, have played a part on your stress,
Come to me, dear woman, when you’ll feel yourself
Wanting to fall, and create an imprint
Of yourself in the soil.
A devil had made this world,
And there is indeed purpose among it.
But, to find myself more wanting,
For the angelic tears that make a journey,
Across your withered cheeks,
Makes me find more meaning.
Modern Romanticism 