#creativewriting
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Lace your hair,Trace your fleshMarble by whiteness,Losing strainWith each of your twists,Dancing on floorsWhere your reflection mimics. Dance this way,Fall into my arms,Awaiting when you can smile,Far from the crowdsWith their hurried glances.By every love,By every fallen vow,I take you. Like droplets from your eyes,Becoming stars.Like beauty that never withers,From the frost of November,I can
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When will you walkWithout the hard strokeOf your aching feet?You impatientWoman, with too many blocksTo wields in arms, meant toCarry something far more soft.You stumbleOn iron.You dream of empiresYou cannot even kiss. Why do you implore overDisaster?Why do you wish for meTo step aside,That you might constructAnother Hell? I love all waking momentsOf your eyesAgainst
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Hell is a patient sort,Willing to wait for itself to coverWhat we will name to be human. What is it to be merciful?To have said this, is to meanThat there are deeper things, than Hell. For I believe,That even Hell can be burned from our life.Its fires are meager. Hell is still a patient sort,Willing
Modern Romanticism 