And I would,
Without audible whisper
Lay within
The storm you have bandaged
Inside
Yourself, heartfelt.
Blood flows,
Mornings go
On towards the secretive sunset,
As I first thought them
To be imagined,
Behind
In one crystallized mind.
Facing you,
Beneath,
For I am no man,
As ever a child
Could reverse a train
Upon stillness, laid in life.
Porcelain arms,
A mouth washed with crimson.
Scenery to a face,
Traced with sublime contours
As the even strands
To your hair.
As the mornings go,
While blood slows
On its epitome
With the wind in these eyes,
I will hold the stones
Close to heart,
That the fires might be trapped.
Modern Romanticism 