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Here, I hangwith ribbons to decoratea gained honor, in dyingfor a heart I piercedwith black arrows. I ripped, I toreinto the gift, presented there.I loved until the aching contentsfrom a furnaced soulcame rushing back. Here, being hangedfrom the same ribbonsused, for this place in cryingfor a love left on the boatswept forward in the sighing.…
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He hates, with a mindthat remembers nothingbut the song.The dirge in the distanceto longest locks dressed overa casket of an empire.Her face, the shortest disgrace,set above a form of broken twigs. Her relief in her last breathhad swept a curtain over her.Her face is keptwith the same brittle tearsas sap to the sleeping tree. Fires…
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Sometimes, when Ihang a word from a heartstringwhere there can be sceneryto your lingering footprints,I retrace the silent stepsthat bled the old breath. The divisive fearthat lingers herein the ruin where wewere brought nearin love,within sight of harrowed eyesand moonlit drear. Here we are, to kissthe same salient surroundings,adorned in the rubiesof thrones and thorns,…
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Note thetransparencyin the overlapping softnessin your voice, in the choice thatburied us in the nighttime’sgleam, beneath the moon,beneath the mysterysurrounding your eyes. In your strangulationupon these shared breaths,you left,parting with the night,seeing no moments that matterwithin sight. A leader’s tragicwalk, towards a cliffto spill the contents ofa heart, caught from above.He thought to be blind,in…
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If our lovewas not the candle, undyingin the fog of a daywe shared cups of tears,wine from our veins,we will be rebuildingthe sinking vessel. One buried lookin the eyes that give offexact radiances, with the sunI can part from, withoutglancing back.If our love never was,I could dream, to envision,even without your oarsto move this life.…
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To the eyes, to the moonlit part of earthen eyelids that winter shut, that night had hid beneath where bones are forming trails in the scattered dirt. Life above, pages below written in the earliest hour, laid in the latest light. A soldier’s cross, a mother’s woe, while faces, the same in glance to what…
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She runs, crawlsthe same pace as her infantthat starves in her hand.Counting the scarsembedded in the earth,where faces sink in their tears,where sicknessis a choir’s song. Counting the stretcheseither on a furthering roador this mother’s belly.Naming the markswhere a child escapedeither from heror from its home. A funeral, with the leavesleftover from a resented autumn.Much…
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When will the lion’s jawsclose to the stench of a wound,while a mother’s arms are aflamefor the warmth of her child? While the soldier prayswhere the night stands still,in the sight of knees against sand,there are fatherswho grace the motherland. Bullets on paper,bombs to heat the shelter.Loneliness revisits the eyes,apart from unificationto the outskirts of…
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In the dark, these eyes are shut to gray. Inside stained hearts, there is a weight to wield on marches, where hands shield – faces, from the rain. Dirges and dirt, funerals and broken vows to guard against pain. Disconnect me, reconnect belief – in the vivid hurt. All that I grow in gardens of…
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“When character is neglected for its objective value, then no matter the title to the leadership position, leadership, itself, becomes ruined.” – Modern Romanticism The definition of leadership is not meant to be subjective. Although, some fools will take the meaning of a thing that it defines itself to whatever a person says it means.…
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“It should be common knowledge, in our world, that no person hates without their reasons. This is the trigger to the cycle, that in being unstoppable, is so because of the existence of knowledge. If all humans were ignorant, we’d not be hateful. If all humans were omniscient, we’d have an infinite number of reasons…
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Beneath, where Inotice where you kneel.I am notin your furled direction.I have sleptas long as you. Time kept us movingin the direction of tidal waves. Are you enamoredfor the fields, for siresstrong in the fire? Lust beneath your fingernails.You claw without fleshto warm you. A petal,to your nakednesswhere all has settledwith the sores,the stains, –…
Modern Romanticism 