Denial
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It is initial, that one will be in the stage of denial, while anger will accompany it, soon after. One, in denial, is frustrated that the matter took place, that the loss took place, as such anger will spark tears. One lashes out, because acceptance is so far away from the current tension. In recent
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Beauty’s empire, or beautiful empire,Has arrested its attention upon the Earth.Many treks are walked to see it,And a one, a woman is there to embrace it.I have offered it,As I have extended it.I was not the one who voided it,As much as it displeased her. I have a fit torment,To walk in her shadows,Created by
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How do I, describe the one,Who has, lifted me, from deprivation?How do I, describe the woman,So beautiful, as to, unearth woes, from a, past life? To make me see, all that, has come to be,And the failures, from faiths, I transgressed, too horridly,All mathematics, and all stars,Point to an answer, I’ve long been, desiring to
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Petals have fallen, over a naked leaf,The soil has been where I found thee laying,Frozen and dead, with a mark upon thy forehead,The mark of terror. The mark of a beast.The mark from a man,Who knew your heart, taken to keep. Beloved, with thy tranquil eyes,That I still see, beneath this frail temple,You have hair
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You surround yourself in an ebony shield,An ebony garb, made by your loathing.It feels to me like a weight upon my palms,For I am the one who holds it close,Like a man without the groping tensionOf one perpetual shame. Disease and wine swim well with the other,How famous we are, when in love,But never so
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In admiration of your form,Upon the pedestal where you stand,The base to make you a statue,Raised high enough for viewing eyes.In loving you, I have made art,I have made a woman of marble. I love thee, with all thy famous beauty.Console me, dear one, with all the infamous tragedy.The fallen tears, down from your cheeks,Will
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Go belittle all else!Unto this rotten love,Of all else given,We’ve dismembered enough,As our cries show many agonies,Many moments of eternity. We are frail children,Tiny ones of no might.We have death as mothers,And cruelty as fathers. We are children perhaps of love?We are what remains of a rotten world,And its disguised future.Funerals surround us in antiquity.
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Your tears know deeply, my futility,My shameful passion that I exalt, so easily.You have beauty running over youAs years of worn flesh. You have eyes that run nakedThe tears of a yesteryear. Of a past so dormant as the lastTime you had poured a tear from a velvet eye.Of all times where denial roams,I am
Modern Romanticism 