Rowing in place,
Moving a space
For grace to be dropped,
As it was heaved
So heavily in my unending arms.
For I have
Allowed her sails to tatter,
Her winds to be scattered.
I drew kisses
Through the mouths of porcelain,
Holding hands with grass blades,
Cutting my flesh with warmth,
With newest bliss
Creating my scenery
Abroad, from the waves.
I drew her around
As autumn leaves to graze the cheeks
Yearning as the thunder
To be struck
Among desert fields
And open canyons
With the same rotting kisses.
Bowels warm with the wickedness,
Sorrows churn
Upon the same burning tears,
As grace trembles with its fears.
Tearstains
Burn books of history
Quicker than what exits the heart,
The love that shields its pages.
Modern Romanticism 