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Modern Romanticism

The aspect of romance, divided between the heartening and the thoughtful.

Poem – “I Love and Loathe You” – Romance – 12/9/2019

December 9, 2019
romanticindeed

“Where else would time take us?”
Said the man, disavowed.
The little child at his feet, wished it could see,
For with blinded eyes, it only groped,
And was seen no different
By that man.
Because, the child was poor.

A woman full of buttons to her cloak,
Garbed in elegant modesty,
Swam in the hatred from a man’s disgrace.
Her child, singing with pain, like a flute to his lips,
Her child, as well, threw arms to swim,
In the grayness of a father’s negligence,
Because her man was the blind one.

“Where is there a future, for me, and for my little one?”
Cried the feeble woman, disowned.
She broke against his own horrors,
The ones, the crafted ones, by his hands soaked in grime.
His own face, elegant in crafted selfishness,
A little lake formed at his feet, by the blood of two broken hearts,
A child and one woman.

Where was God, upon this day,
Besides absent from all the dismay?
He was seated upon the highest throne,
And called for bread to be thrown.
A little current of wine,
When dominance is shared,
As this man neglected what was always bared.

Chaos drifted down the walkways
Of every new tomorrow,
And made newer puddles,
From everyone’s tears.

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A Man’s Personal Thoughts – “The Suicidal Ideation” – 12/9/2019

December 9, 2019
romanticindeed

Guilt sure is a sweetness upon my bitter tongue. A tongue that has spoken many regretful words, to people I’ve known to love.

And I’ve grown tired of myself…

I reflect in these thoughts, knowing that the pain is like building blocks to create a better tomorrow. Regret and reflection are so much intertwined, alike the monster that dwells in the darkness, and only ever the darkness, because the light creates the fear. Darkness is a comfort, for the monster. He would hang himself by his own spilled entrails, should a slayer come with sword flashing to cut open the monster’s belly. It would finish itself.

A monster chews upon its own flesh.

A monster rejects the opportunity to see their past, for how could a monster within the shadows, tell apart shadow from shadow? To a monster, each shadow to represent a past, may as well also represent the future.

Guilt is a sweetness, and I have drenched myself in its honey. I have found myself to nibble on the sugar that comes between guilt’s hind legs. It is an animal, and I find myself the bestial someone, to drink from that darkness.

Love had once found its way. But, it had been a dream, and the sun is unreachable.

The sun is too hot, and I am only a monster, eagerly swallowing his own filth and brine, because guilt is a sweetness, a tangy flavor, to be savored like the most cherished of wines in France.

Shadows are so much alike a mother, so much alike a woman with a past, like the few creatures upon this Earth who care for life; and, even more-so, alike the wind that pushes the flower to curtsy towards the future.

May the past also do the same, for me?

May I ever see the repairs done, by these two hands that had broken much of myself?

Poem – “When the Evening Met Her Lips” – Romance – 12/8/2019

December 8, 2019
romanticindeed

Downed by displeasure
To a dying day.
And then, downed by your hands,
To roaring sheets,
To see the evening in your eyes,
And then, the sunset upon your lips.
For you were the one
To kiss the day to vanish away.

My beauty, with hair so vivid in its angles,
And with body stark in its curves,
Alike those to the Earth,
And when you turn, the Earth turns,
When you twist, the Earth rotates
Upon an axis to make it winter,
When each flake of snow will descend
To meet your warm cheeks.

Delicate one,
Frail one,
With lightness to every step
That you make, upon this evening’s wake,
I’ll kiss those cheeks, for they appear
Somber enough for me to hear
Little remnants of sadness, quaking in your heart,
And how could that be?

How could,
That you would
Chew up still,
Misery’s fill?

I had thought
To have bought
Away the madness from your eyes,
So no longer do we dwell, in our lies.

Make it evening, forever,
So that we may see the shadows, cast over
Our debt, our currency to love,
Our pleasures, to our necessities from above.

Poem – “As you were Enamored in my Eyes” – Romance – 12/7/2019

December 7, 2019
romanticindeed

I filled my eyes with the droplets of joy
To believe in you,
During when I had believed in you,
The delicate iris for my eye.
With each petal I had then plucked
To the greatest farewell,
And the shortest goodbye.

Your beauty was the sun,
And the moon, combined.
Resplendent, as a radiant star,
And how I could hold you, when you were under my eyes,
So that tears would fall to meet your mouth,
As my kisses fell to meet your mouth.
And my arms seem to be still around you.

You delicate thing,
You beautiful thing,
You porcelain thing.
How I’ll yearn to cradle your head, in the future.
How I’ll wish to kiss your tired eyes, in the future.
And it won’t happen,
Because it won’t come.

So my tears only fall to meet a shadow
That stands still at my feet.

Prose – “My Dear Departed Lady” – Romance – 12/6/2019

December 6, 2019
romanticindeed

Once, on a road, within a carriage, I lashed those reigns against the mare’s rear, and fled forward to the North. For I saw a star, with a sign I knew well to be part of it. A little note a blew free from my mouth, mingling with the frost in a silver breath, for it was nearly winter.

The month of December drew the evening into a tide. A tide of tears and bitterness, for I was with my beloved’s form. She passed from an illness I know not of its origin. Still, I rode with all my mare’s might towards the North, to see the graves of my family. Their horror, I could imagine to be alike mine, for I am one to weep frequently. But, their horror not only to see me, were they to live, though to see the beauty that rested in a delicate mode, is unfathomable.

Little woman who was beside me, with her eyes upon blackness, as her lids were closed, and her form pressed into the cushion beneath herself; I could see herself quite warm in whatever nestled area she made for herself in Heaven.

Death is a strange element for life to, one day, experience, for she appeared as warm and comfortable as though she never passed. As though she were prepped in the garbs befitting that cold and shameful day. It was as if the bloodless cold to her skin were something of no bother to her.

My dear departed lady was dressed in black, to match her state. Death, it was, and I could never bring her back, for I am not Christ. Though, I prayed to him to do what I could not. And, though it did not happen, and because it did not happen, I have to admit that my faith slipped, if only a tad.

I am in terrible torment, in memory of that day, for as I rode close to see the star, it began to shimmer and distort itself, ever-more; and, ever-more did it also seem to drown itself away from me, unwilling to allow me to embrace it. It had to have only been my mind, in its own state, as one of paranoia. My woman, my love, and how beautiful she had been in life!

Betrayed by love, I am, and I speak not of my beloved, for she is at fault for nothing. I speak ill of the emotion, only, as my mind expected the everlasting and the utmost, from it.

The mare, the horse, rode forward towards the gleaming and fading light. And I discovered something on the way. With the fading light, I, too, began to shimmer as something I believed never to be possible.

Was I dead, too, unable to believe in it?

Like a light, like a belief, like a faith I knew I once had, I am now telling of a scene that was upon a time, in a bleak history.

But, I speak of the past, like something dimly lit in my mind. It is as if I were somewhere I know not even of the place, at the moment I speak of this. Am I cherished in where I belong? The little home about me, with its four walls, and the rocking chair where I am seated. What is this place? The hues are shadows, while the darkness is the sunlight beaming inside.

Am I lost upon this road?

Poem – “The Spiteful Farewell” – Romance – 12/6/2019

December 6, 2019
romanticindeed

The grace, had all laid among wastes,
With the taste of blood upon our frozen tongues,
For we could not speak when time was not friendly.
Time was only between us,
Creating a horrid barrier,
A blockade, of sorts,
Tragedy was our craving,
As we both waved
Two syllables from each our hands,
The farewell, that drew us apart.

Full of spite, we were,
Among the debris, we were,
With ice upon our eyes,
And winter stinging our souls,
Here, we shimmer, and distort what reality we knew,
While droplets fall to freeze
From eyes shown in torment.

Leaves quiver and dance,
Beside us.
Agony calls with writhing limbs,
Near to us.
Kisses become engraved in the belly of our beastly selves,
The appetite to every pattern
Of flakes, in the snow.

Love is a splinter
In our skin.
A little pain in the flesh,
Like a thorn turned away from sin
To sunrise.
We crave, enough to save, what will not rot,
Between ourselves and the next love
To eat away.
We bleed, but we stay
Among ourselves, to satiate.

Poem – “You are the Grandest thing Alive” – Romance – 12/6/2019

December 6, 2019
romanticindeed

Foiled by a pen,
Wrote a word too embedded in love,
Sunk the tip of the quill deep in the ink,
And marked my heart,
Words that should raise,
Though thwart
My heinous mind.

Fairy of the night,
With wings that shed flakes of snow,
There is, for you, a palace you should know.
It was for when we created peace,
By a night dipped in passion,
Eyes upon Heaven,
And bodies burned in Hell.

We shed dew into a new morning,
And made honey in our embrace.
Love brought time, apart,
While we danced the bed to start
A reverberation,
A cherishing,
A longing.

Love grows like thorns upon the rose,
While lust sinks the petals to wilt.

Kiss me, once more, as I write this verse,
Kiss me with the memory of when we first conversed.

Poem – “The Art of Grieving” – Romance – 12/5/2019

December 5, 2019
romanticindeed

I hold one wicked smile,
Within one shattered palm,
As I have tamed it,
Made it a name,
In my house of sculptures.
Beauty and conscious mind,
Suffering from my delusions,
Becomes paranoia,
And complete fear,
Because, there is a state of agony
To behold, before me.
A place for me,
Next to Satan, in my house of martyrs.

Beauty and beauty,
Becomes foiled at my touch,
Turns to dust, upon my command,
Turns to dust at the flick
Of one misused brush.
I am an artist,
Of Hellish creation,
Beauty is my name,
A little face with many stains,
As God could grant me wisdom,
Were He to not see my face en-grained.

I draw blood-streaks
Upon my eyes,
And upon my arms,
I draw cuts in diagonal shape,
In infamous patterns
Alike my mind,
With all the torment I could allow to take form.

Where is my Heaven?
Where did it leave me?

Poem – “A Terrible Struggle with Forgiveness” – Romance – 12/5/2019

December 5, 2019
romanticindeed

I thirst for the moment
When I can peel back the skin from my tongue,
And see,
Only what I could not reach forward for
In the dimming haze of this winter forest,
But only what I had tasted,
Being the rain of different droplets,
From different places on this Earth.

Death and denial,
Have an eternal place,
A marriage in Hell,
A hand waving farewell.
There is, in me,
The longing, to see,
What had been broken,
Upon a time in history.

Love and betrayal,
Pain and this denial,
To see myself,
Shattered in the mirror of envy,
Where I had crossed different landscapes,
Full of rivers of every flavor of tear,
From eyes, as high, as the sky,
As high as the ethereal blue.

My struggle with forgiveness,
Is in placing these hands to rest,
Beneath the sand, and the soil, too.

Love is a mask,
For my emotion,
For only a demon resides beneath it.

Poem – “Hardened Blood, like Coated Frost” – Romance – 12/5/2019

December 5, 2019
romanticindeed

My face and mind,
As my eyes stare so blind,
I believed in a love who did not awake
To see,
Me, in terrible suffering.
Famous, though mild,
Crude, though wild,
She was the stench of filth,
And terrible bliss.

My own beauty,
Where did it vanish?
Where did it leave to,
In this winter of duress?
Among all the pain,
There is hardly any shame,
To weather my ancient body,
For my finger hangs heavy when it points to her.

Little Heaven, above,
As my only light,
There is grace and spite nestled beside,
These old horrors.

My denial of Hell,
My embrace of self,
Are only two worlds apart.
Sentenced for a stay
In her chamber of filth, and loose decay.

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