Desperate
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Cling upon me,For your immediate comfort.You have wept with a shivering form,And eyes that obey all contention.A face that needs no bliss, as mineOr your own, for the coming deprivation. Disease me, your wounds of many fields.Kiss me, O woman of much gathered,Suffer not, when the world comes tumblingUpon our bosoms, so wide and heavy.We
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As my arms extend outwards,To reach for what I had lost,There’s only the air,And only a strand of hair,To embrace,I have touched the edge of a bed. I have made my home a nest,Of emptiness.I have become one withLoneliness and grief.It is because of an agony,One with so much melody,Within her gruesome cries,To my eyes.
Modern Romanticism 