Modern Romanticism

I see
Wrapped around you in softness,
The robe meant to depart
From a feeble waist
For the greatest taste
Of one man, as me
Needing to see
A woman with a majesty's form,
Written over in the sand.

One long line for a verse
Spells each delicate curve to be conversed.
Life sits still upon the plain to be wandered,
When I hold her in arms, that do not wither,
Not against the wind in a hurricane,
Nor against the bitter cold
In an afternoon of snow.

I find her staying
To be that of the moon
Wanting not to change faces
Before the night is done.

I cannot lose
What I have called my muse
For the delicacy of artistic design
Drunken upon the warmness of wine.

I feel
What should not be healed.
Her form a burn against my skin,
Flowing evenly between the clashing currents.