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BreathingEach grace,Stumbling overYour expressionlessFace.Bleeding and kneelingBeneath the sun,In the path of your startledGaze. I move,RunningTowards your world,Apart from mine,In the green oceans,With the blue lands. I liftBoulder after boulderFrom you,While you were trappedUnder pebbles, so heavy,Inside a coffin, so light. I rainTeardrops to you,Singing griefUnder this blank curtain. Can a glimpse of some other loveTouch…
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A burial. You are my tomb. My place, in the world, is forsaken. Upon you, I will rot, decay and slumber. In your arms, I am lost. I do not heal, for I am lost. I have always burned a trail for my feet to carry me. I have executed innocents, for the sake of…
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“An artist should accept failure, not make explanations which would translate to excuses. Even an ordinary person, who has failed in their attempt to make something better of themselves, inevitably accepts the failure. Whether to ‘make better’ as a person, or for an artist to better their own skills, there must be acceptance for failure,…
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“Meaning. As a word, it should explain itself.” – Modern Romanticism Art has meaning. It has meaning within meaning. It has layers of its own meaning. Each layer descends atop the previous one, just as clothing for a woman might be removed to reveal the beautiful and vulnerable sculpture beneath. Peel back the layers, and…
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“To the introduction of fairness, comes as the introduction of unfairness when it is brought forth to be compassion. Equality is not compassionate.” – Modern Romanticism Equality is not compassionate. Could one “introduce” fairness into a working environment, full of people believed to be treated with unfairness? That is the same as offering special treatment.…
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DelicateAs virgin snow,As budsTo bloom frozen watersFrom discolored veins.You have of your eyesUnseen history,To place in trusted hands.Living under silent boughs,Losing watersFrom storms, in yourClosed stare. I offer the kissTo make you breatheWith the come of Spring.Too many offeringsHave been madeTo your church,As you never flourished your secretsFor sorrows to enter tomorrow.A grand steepleRaised to…
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Looser than decay,My limbs do strayTo the curtain of you,Draped with delicacy.There can be no more moonsLeft for my howls. Can they hear my cries?The winds carry them,Just as they lash my back. I never knew but a broken-offPetal,Could follow my trail. I am here to condone you,The subtlest shift in the windTo carve the…
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How I hold your handsClose to my lips,Feverish, they areBy the sudden stormAbove your head.How the waves touchYour barren skin,How the ripples never dieTo the calmest stillness. LovingWith wires left to untangleOf your matted hair,Where my eyes, buried in tearsBleed, for all to be aware. Your eyesForm the oceansFor my collapse,A silence never staysEnough for…
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“The importance of diversity is in its expression, of language. Yet, can art be forced, without the burnout of the soul? Must extreme measures be taken for the person of their language to force truth forward? Forcing diversity seems to be what makes the torturous interrogator.” – Modern Romanticism Forcing truth, to the surface of…
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It is not your faultThe ruins around meResulted from my own hands.Blood has been spilledTo temper these walls.My own. Structures still so resilient,By the outlying current.Sadness recedesMe, back to where ISay I can denyAll the love I cannot feel. Upon your eyesA certain coldness resides,That I cannot seem to hideFrom bleakest reality. For you burn…
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Sprout thee,Delicate majesty.Your face is sculpted for meTo see. The storm you wash meIn bedeviled tranquility,Has me wander,Has me breatheThe whisking fantasiesBeneath moonlit ecstasies. Can this love be pure,Upon your frail form?Can you see the tides we createOn winter’s life, swept?Like white curtains atopYour barren, black eyes,A bleak sunsetShrouded by frost. I have come to…
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To you,For you,Can you wear the rain?My love,Petal yourselfIn these stains.My heart cloaks itselfIn the cold,Wearing a shroud of darkDelicate and old. I want to come to kissThose very pearls about your neck.Your lifeIs marked by the fallen dropletsFrom the withered rose,That I am. You are allTo the nothing I am.I am just a manWith…
Modern Romanticism 