Modern Romanticism

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

Poem – “Your Form like the Crawling Sea” – Romance – 12/9/2019

December 9, 2019

A mind made with shelves, adorned in the books
That read the past with much awareness,
And a heart that recedes with the tide
Of a bloody sea.

No fault could ever welcome itself
Into your open arms,
For you possess a form,
That outdoes even the sea with its many currents,
And many curves,
From cresting waves.

I am in love with a woman I have envisioned
To be my partner in life.
Her form, though, is a sight of great admiration,
With beauty to each mark,
And with a belly that exhales the breath to sing,
Resonating as the startled lark.
With tresses that rain to shoulders and neck,
And then to a pair of snowy legs,
That seem to stand, as the statue does,
Upon its base.

A form, and also a face,
Beauty is the notion, I have come to know,
By all your radiance, upon skin so immaculate in hue,
And desirous, as something I never knew.
For you have eyes that wander the extent of that form,
For seduction’s sake.
My eyes, as well, see the world over,
But never the sea,
Beautiful, in everywhere I have seen,
And marvelous, in white skin that bleeds the sheen.


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

December 9, 2019

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 – “The Message Behind your Lips” – Romance – 12/8/2019

December 8, 2019

The distilled honey
From a thousand flowers
That blossomed nectar,
To meet the sun,
And shone there,
High above,
In the early noontide of this spring day.

I came away
To see thee,
And soon set upon a path
In a forest of green,
Lost and unaware
To my motions,
For they were as your own.

Stumbling through these narrow pathways
Beneath feet covered in stone,
I groped for a vine,
And only saw what I held before myself,
Being the hair that I always held,
Torn from a head,
Being yours.

I came away
To see thee, in a sea of loneliness,
And blew smoke from my lungs,
When love held its own above,
In a radiant Heaven.
Beauty caused us both to flinch,
Though, the hair still was clenched in fingers, heavy.

I clenched what I drew back,
What were the longest tresses
I knew to be,
A deeper tragedy.
A solemn hour upon my lap,
A beautiful heart in your bosom,
Quaking from all the shaking.

We were lovers for perhaps a minute,
Until we were dead for a moment.

You, a lady of the night,
And me,
Just a man with a burden to offer
A world that seems light as a burned feather.

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

December 8, 2019

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.

Words of Wisdom – “To Define Religion…” – Philosophy on Religion – 12/6/2019

December 6, 2019

“We sometimes speak ill on the word ‘religion’, while sometimes speaking ill on the word ‘zealot’. ‘Faith’ and ‘fanaticism’ co-exist with all else, not merely a church with its steeple, nor a Biblical story with dust upon its pages. There are no statues nor statuettes required, nor does there need to be a thousand-and-one worshipers as followers and dedicated priests. There merely needs to be the simple something, to become the complication for everyone’s detriment. An Atheist, who calls himself a ‘believer in nothing’, will place firmness or structure on the word ‘faith’, than what faith really holds by way of definition. To be clear, ‘faith’ holds the same definition as trust in practicality. The Zealot will believe in God’s ability by way of His practicality. There is no sense in this, because what differs science from religion, is practicality for the former, and impracticality in the latter. However, desperation will be both the pleading of a one who submits before God, and the weapon to be used to keep others in line. This is dominant and prominent, on both sides. Love should be the only focus for religion, being an emotion of no practicality. Love has no applied usage for it, in the same sense that we do not ‘utilize’ a beloved, because they are seen, by us, as humans, not robots to be tools or simple slaves.

It is the way with an Atheist, with a scientist, to use the same zealotry for ‘dependency’s’ sake, to turn practicality into the true use. Does science have followers? It does. Does science have devotees? It does. Religion thought God practical, only through desperation. And now when science seeks answers, it does so through question, and for a population to ask such questions, for science to offer them answers. This is the same as if a Bishop were to offer bread to a starving pauper.

However, as we know by now, a ‘conclusion’ is the same as the ‘subjective’ way of thought, when we add ‘Democracy’ into the picture of science. This means that ‘taste’ and ‘opinion’ will have more of a prominence than absolution. With absolution, no further discoveries are made in the subject for scientific advancement. We have ‘conclusions’, and so we compare such a word to ‘flavors’ for any food or beverage. We have consumerism, and we have appetite. We have devolution, as well, and confusion to add.”

Prose – “A Little Romance before a Mirror” – Romance – 12/6/2019

December 6, 2019

Just as I could glance no more upon her aching form, in where I had put my hands, my head turned sideways. To see what I should not have seen, or what could not be seen, in that scene of pain. I was with hands to her throat, while my famous and sharpest dagger, cut through flesh to open it, wide again, after whatever other lover had come her way.

A harlot, and a little wanderer, through streets when lamps will dance in a flame. And I had killed her! A devilish doing for myself, and I do not count this among my achievements. She had been so frail, the tiniest thing to see through, and I next chose to see the mirror, to her reflection.

A ghostly and ghastly image! An apparition that cut through me, as I did to her! A vile and twisted shadow to a woman, once alive with passion and enticement! It gnarls my form, and twists it free of the blood I claim to be my life, in such a way to make me weak at the knees.

And, I would bow to her, were she to flinch, at this moment, when there is nothing to her, besides a decrepit and loose form.

I could kneel, were she to twitch this delicacy called a woman’s body. I’d then ask for her hand, to marry her, out of a simple desire to be reprieved from this terror before me, in the reflection. For it would not at all be something for seriousness, not for the genuineness of one marriage in bliss; no, only to be forgiven.

I had not wanted what I see, and am stuck upon. An image for my punishment, and I cannot question it. I cannot question what is meant for me. The devil is in this bedroom, a harlot on the bed, now dead, and my own body is in the heat of a torment, so raw.

Love had never drawn itself into myself, for my own protection, so well, as now. I cradle a few strands above my brow, and say I shouldn’t be to blame, in sudden denial. In sudden denial, I attempt to move from the room.

And I do! I do move, and quickly advance to the door, to open it.

I see the hallway, and what do I do besides fall?

My heart. It has eclipsed, itself.

And I am as dead as the harlot I had slain.

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

December 6, 2019

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 – “A Face to Match Heaven” – Romance – 12/6/2019

December 6, 2019

You’d first lay me down,
To the bloody sea,
Where raises horns from deep below,
A buried empire where fears surely show.
Deny me enough,
Little lady of a void,
Your chamber holds only whispers,
Kindness and mercy
Am I enough for the treasures we’ll both share?
Am I true to the blessings we’ll both wear?

An eagerness, of sorts,
Of grace, and faces nestled between,
The thoughts of a one I know so well,
Kisses were empty from each one,
Pink and red lips, that dwell
In a heart of mine, not so clean.

I dance with you in my arms,
And hold a face that requires kiss after buried kiss,
And I know where my Hell has gone,
While I hold my Heaven.

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

December 6, 2019

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 – “A Love Descending a Staircase” – Romance – 12/6/2019

December 6, 2019

Upon me, and over me,
With blueish contrast from thy beaming eyes,
To the tresses that rock over thy neck,
Like a galleon that weens itself through,
The fine waves and random gulls.

Romance sprouts so evenly
From thy brimming shoulders, bared to be touched
By my rotting fingers.
You descend from the slope, from the mountain
With as much precision allotted to thee.

With a face true and whole,
Filled inside a heart, cold and cruel,
And I still love thee,
My love,
Although, you’ve become something else.

A boulder that falls from the highest precipice,
To a void, my heart,
To fill the gap, the hole,
And thou will descend,
With eyes facing downwards to where I kneel.

Like a mermaid and like a siren,
Thou calls to me, sings to me,
Until Heaven, and its angels show their envy.