Face
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Your eyes have surrounded,My aching morning,As beauty swims a fallen mile,A death that I drew close,You will be the woman I will raise,From a worn stem of flesh. You have a face that shows a yearning,For a merciful connection,A series of tears have washed my tired face,I am a man who knows truest torment,As I
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I stand above a pool of someone’s blood and attempt to notice the faces, in the attempt of my question, coming forth in trembling syllables, “Who had caused this destruction?” A wasteland surrounds me in echoes of crying women. Of weeping men over the graves to their beloved, they too, sing out. They feel, as
Modern Romanticism 