Modern Romanticism

Let us not simplify

Her eyes, nor her mind

When stared through, across the line.

What a face!

What a gentleness!

What a love I hold for the new one,

The beauty who was meant to be seen

By no one, but me.

Something rips through the miles,

As it is my sight

To the perfection I will call my bride.

Love is the music upon my breath,

For all that will be wed.

Her face, an image of porcelain,

With ruby for lips and emerald for eyes.

A dash of gold, melted down to saturate her skin

Overcome by the blush of a rose, upon two scarlet cheeks.

She rips a smile across the pages

Of the tale to that visage,

Of the white, and the letters, to her countenance.

Each has been traced by many a man,

Who did stand.

Though, only one had knelt low.