Modern Romanticism

A drink, would you
take me up on it?
Hell has never had such
bitter oceans and driving rush.
Not spring with its morning dew
could renew your eyes,
nor could a gleam from winter's sunsets,
then on, to a lone summer sunrise.

No renewal, at where we met,
blossoming buds inside our glances,
as those are starved
at the snow-covered towers,
where knees land at their holy entrances.

Not summer with its lonesome sentence
could send a ring around a crude finger.
One sentence to a cell where lingers
your shadow in the burial of warmth.

One drink, with the tears at finality
where death and love meet at eternity.
One long embrace, one dancing caress
far from the burdening calamity.

Where sights and sounds, safeguards around
in the place where angels beat wings,
folding us, as our voices sing - 

of water that from an ocean's surround
washes the darkness apart.
One soft kiss upon the dual petals,
upon your lips as serenity is settled.