Death
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“To look upon the dead, believe them to be heroes, would mean to never see life as something to be praised. One has embraced cowardice, in this sense, in the belief that another should be dead, so that their death is taken for advantageous gain. A dead individual cannot fight back, cannot speak against what
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“To remember the dead, by how they died, is the onset to cowardice. This is objective, through the realization that death needs not praise, though their life for when they were alive, needs praise. Praise the dead for how they lived, not for how they died. The former is honor, while the latter is cowardice.
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“The train of progress stifles possibility at its end. The person who found, through progress, that it would create limitless potential, will find by its end it was, in fact, limited in its supply. Each mortal life is confounded to its ending, as that last stop for the train of progress will be the realization
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I begged her song to be written for me, in what colors she could pour out, from a throat made of silver. Though, I simply waited while her sigh, the last one, drew out the silver breath from her lungs, against the fiery coldness of winter. Of what I saw, of that silver breath, against
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Love is that emotion that threads the universe to the stars. He walks with the gait of someone who comprehends something that another wouldn’t. Love that is left not felt, is what he gathers in arms so heavy. Truly the treasured emotion he finds to be comforting, can always ease the darkness in anyone, as
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The pallid man sat upon the lonely rocks, counting the stars in the sky to attempt to imagine them as the object he held. A tulip, with the fewest petals still intact. One of them, plucked from his backyard and held close to his face, to breathe the scent of it. He imagined his wife
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I will nowLick the tears away from those sorry cheeks,Nothing has looked so worn and bleak,Miserable beauty. Please allow meTo crown thee,To wed thee,If not of the ceremony, then of the forgivenessThat pools beneath our feet. I have loathed youFor no reason at all.I admire my guiltPerhaps more than I loved you. Your eyes glistenBeneath
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She soars, as a phantomBled by distant romance.Upon the halo’s entrance,Smiles were eclipsedFrom her place in the skyTo the Earth where she dies. Float past meTo the fear you know so well.Fly to the wind, that embraces theeAmong all of you, so torn. I’ll kiss, though will not kiss, againThe hollow eyes that see only
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No longer shed the tears,No longer shed the struggle.You collapse on knees as old as the stones behind you,That you drag.Though, your nakednessHas been something to kissFor beauty’s sake. Life has stepping stones,Not weights for shoulders. Love searches for paths in bones,Calling a ring up to ears that sting. Once I saw you undressed near
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You feel the ropeWrapped around your feet?You feel the eyesPouring a stare upon your handsWhile all you holdAre the tears, from the night? Do you feel the loveBreathing over you,Bleeding beloved? Do you feel the burnOf my armsAgainst your cold skin? I grew to be your King,My darling woman,So that I may set you on
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It is not to be swiped aside that we do not want a dog, nor a cat, nor a horse, to be mistreated, but what of criminals? A “right” is temporary when one abandons it. Like the dog, abandoned, and then “rescued” to be placed behind a cage, how does one see the inmate in
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Life has giftsOf dying oldGiven unto the youngWho treasure what is hungAbove in the sky, where tears fall loosely. Your eyes sungWith higher choirsThan ever did your mouth, breathing out your screamsTo my open ears,My open arms. Life is a peddled roadFull of moments, stolenAway from where cliffs offer the racing childrenWho shall not become
Modern Romanticism 