Blood
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Sometimes, when the scar has seemed to heal,I reject its process to heal,By a singular motion of my right and dominant handTo tear it open,And release the tides upon my feet.I breathe the scent of iron,Soon as emotion is revealed, once again. I wanted to forget,And I wanted to forgive you,And yet, my strength had
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I neglect truth, wherever it stands,Plead for difference, wherever it lands,And make myself whole, through indifference,I beg to be differed, in manhood and resplendence.For I am weak by your side,With eyes that drop to a fingerThat is your own,Gleaming with a ring. Wherever the world rotates,I am not there.Wherever kisses are offered,I am not shared,With
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I stand above a pool of someone’s blood and attempt to notice the faces, in the attempt of my question, coming forth in trembling syllables, “Who had caused this destruction?” A wasteland surrounds me in echoes of crying women. Of weeping men over the graves to their beloved, they too, sing out. They feel, as
Modern Romanticism 