Descriptions
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Beauty is born upon her, with marks to her fields of skin. Imperfections that amount to the truths of this once-wounded woman. Cured by absence, though remains scarred in this man’s heart. Remains treasured more in his mind, than that orb of red. Of memories within bleakest stains, that never fade. They are the shadows.
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Here is the cruelest fate,That life has placed upon my plate.I have furnished the table with silverware,Of those to my type.And I will dine on what you have given meIn the Hell we are both living,And for the Heaven we are both missing,Upon the Earth where we are both grieving. The nectar of romance,A sweet
Modern Romanticism 