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“The material. It cannot substitute the lack of the immaterial. To anyone who disagrees that love is no choice, it should then be safe to assume they want something as money to be the route to their heart.” – Modern Romanticism Is love a game? It is not, objectively speaking. Life is the game, because…
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Half the roomsConcealed in shadows,Buried in the thought of youFor pictures that would not overturn,For traces of youCeased to burn. Simple tearsFrom a sun that would onlyHalf-way setUpon the horizonWhere puddles are gathered,Enough to split the pathwayOn my journey to you. Blink while the world goes darkWithin your trembling arms,As I will receive your kissBeneath…
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“Upon pride, a person takes to addiction, being of the people and places they will never love. To pride, a person takes possession of the material, since to swallow the sweet deception is far more enticing than the bitter truth. No one swallows their own pride, without recognition to their limitations.” – Modern Romanticism No…
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To be flawless is to be omniscient, or to be perfect is to be boundless in depth. Though, the one way a person is closest to perfection is through themselves, as an individual, seeing to the depth of another. By emotion, since to see the depths of a person is to witness and then explore…
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Among the waves,Tears collect, to recedeFrom the glass,From the mirror’s boundaryFrosted by breath,Frozen throughIn the silence of death. Among allCountless beats of a heart,Veins will shatterAlong withEach moment to matter. While eyes hideBehind the tear-stained hands,While one wilted formCannot standUpon a barren shore. Unable to see,Unable to breatheA second more,While the afterlifeCloses upon me. Naked…
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Naked upon the lips,A hush for a child’s mouth.Though with a kiss,There is solitude, in the dark.There is reservation for the shelfWhere history repeats itselfIn blanketing white. Her heart, a diamond,Though flawed.With edges, to the perfect cutFor her skinMade into the great unfoldingOf a thousand moreDelicate imaginings,Behind the wire – Behind the connection,For misery’s resurrection.All…
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I would witnessIn your eyesThe careful arrangementOf one glistening firestorm,Reviving the nightInto a porcelain day. There are pots, here,Carved to the perfectionOf your form.Each of them wieldsThe same droplets you concealBehind a wearied glance,Where the world faces you. There are flowers to the vases.As to the withering of a life,For all that honesty can implore,There…
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“When the world becomes more crowded with the bad, then all the more to endure for the good. The latter are soon to find there is no place for themselves, and so they take to the Heavens to find a realm where goodness is most alike.” – Modern Romanticism
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It is order that encompasses what does not, or should not, divide. A responsible person will comprehend order, since to divide oneself from it is to forsake what it means to earn one’s freedom. That is to say that to be ordered, even of the self, is to comprehend that one cannot be given freedom,…
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What is leftUpon starlit eyes,Where galaxies shift intoWasted constellations,From shelteringConsolation. The running darkFrom the milky whiteWaters the hands of God,Among the fruit to His gardenAs wrath boilsIn the fervor. Passion enticesLost elementsTo run with the wind,To that vacant heart. Share the weatherFor not what leavesWith the breeze,Bending branches to burialFor a thousand moreRisen sculptures. Why…
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Hold this hope,Drown this HeavenTo give to darkness its final reward.We haveFaded along the pathWith shadows crossing our direction,Waiting in the sunrise,As the sunset whipsOur turned backs. As the fadeAlong with the shadeBelieves in what cannot rise,Though with two lips pressedTo rotting skies,As withering angels,We can teemAmong this anchoring gleam,With our arms as shelter. We…
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To how much I have crossedTo inhale the vapor, before your eyes.To offer youThe need to seeAll pain that has created thisCrown of thorns, above me. While vines drop your lifeAt every sweet grape,Notice the wine that flows from wrists,Bitter to the flavorOf finality. I have pulled off the leechesDrunk from the serene,FamiliarWarmth of a…
Modern Romanticism 