Love is a famous thing,
My bird, my devil.
You have sprouted wings for myself to see,
Hoping for this face of mine to utter some sound,
That will ignite the world around.
Our garden of decay,
Is where we share these notes of love,
Alike our merry Heaven with a house of stone,
Falling to our feet, from above.
I will hope to meet you, in coming time,
Kiss you, beneath tree and star, combined,
Blessed beauty, you have been made mine,
Structured in a well of empathy,
Screams and sighs, we allow for each other,
For kisses and holiest rhymes,
To bleed upon another.
Destitute, we once were,
As children of a demonic world.
And we are now the crudest things,
Beneath wreaths of love, and greatest imaginings.
Once, we were brethren of faraway hopes,
And we kissed beyond a sea,
We suffered torments without vows,
And now,
We are lovers in swollen hearts.
Modern Romanticism 