Modern Romanticism

Murder is a quickened route
For a heart made of silver,
Sculpted by ivory hands,
To make the wares for meals set in place
Upon the table,
Where nothing goes to waste.

I am, in the eyes of a distorted relative of mine,
The man whose love could cross the shallows of Hell
To reach the heights of Heaven.

A mother, a woman of her sorrows,
Holding candles to the masses,
Sees me as the pain that truly would not leave her womb.

The taste of blood
Of an infant, crushed
By the stomach of something greater than hunger,
Beyond the intentions of survival,
To the fates scrawled on the scrolls of Heaven's archives.

I do want to love
The Heaven, where calls my dove
To its place, in the shares of light
That do not plot, do not fight
Against the spots where we have our sight.

I am in love with distaste, as the world named it,
So that I may never waste
All I have come to face
In the arms of angelic curves, lustful craving
Of a thousand written poems
That receive the burn against their pages,
That receive the history of forgotten ages,
When scents are received with mouths,
Instead of noses,
As I use this moment, to collapse.