Literature
-
And, it is Alessio’s eyes that have caught the sight, again. He feeds a string to her gaze, of a woman recognized for much attraction. Bold in her shape, and gentle in her step. Yet, it is as if no one else, besides Alessio, has noticed her. Again with the pink band about her waist,
-
Near the windowsill where you wept,While the wood still keptThe stains of reddest tears,Because, your wrists didn’t agreeWith the color of blueThat drained from the sky. Near the windowsill where you slept,And I’m still with the memory of a facePainted by sadness, despite my gladness,For your betrayal was a kindness upon the Devil’s door.And, when
-
She rose, so well, in the time of morning,Stilled, my finger was, worn and broken,At the still of morning, by what laces the sun,Being, her face, as I trace every line and curve,By that same finger. What a kindness, unto me!What a world, that enraptures me!Her disease, called love,Is a wonder, to still be aboveMyself,
-
I lay it, quietly,A kiss upon thy forehead,While music shudders around us,And destroys all tension,As I have kissed you. Resplendence, among beauty and grace,All are teeming in your bosom.You have a flower in your hair,And a heart that shimmers, like the wings flapping from the gulls,Radiant with the dew from the sea. A clever mind,
-
Depression is a current moment, for youWhen you dip tears into the bowl of failure,I have not been good to you.But, I will surround you, in the venom of friendship.I will surround youIn the thorns that have been, all to us,The things we recognize,Are to us,The wilderness of sheer belief. We are not for us,But,
-
Rain comes as the fewest petals,To break themselves upon the shores of my cheeks,I had loved you, with all the grains upon my heart,I felt your suffering, for what it truly was,Though, I am alone.I am alone, without you.I am alone, to kiss my own tears, in this bleakness.In this winter of my heart, where
-
We are revealed, before an Earth that has concealedIts face for too long.Here is place we’ll both escape to, in the realm of our disgrace,Death is a final place, that we both had to face. We stared into Death’s face,And spat upon it.Now when love is still culled, like one population too overgrown,Like thistle become
-
Pleasures sometimes, and only sometimes,Stifle themselves,Upon our walks through boarded passageways and times alone,When we may see the shores with its naked sands,Fused like longing upon longing.What will the seas become, without the sands beneath?As scarlet as your lips,We are lone with only our shadowsAmong depravity.We dwell, in faraway eyes, over those oceans, and their
-
When Hell cannot be quelledOf its shaping design, to forge a fire in my mind,There are the eyes, I always followTo where they point,Upon my bosom, where a bruised heart, burns black.A little woman with her hair in tangles,And suffering as a stain upon only her skin,Because, she has tasted flame,The flame of deprivation, to
-
Like the pauper, sideways upon the roadways.Like the pauper’s eyes, with no stare that enters backwardsTo the trailing mind, like the road before him.Like the pauper’s mind, imagined to be HellishIn whatever dream he’s conjured to pursue,Because the sun seems too hot, and unreachable,As the gold he’s longed to breathe,It is us. A nothingness, in
-
My face and mind,As my eyes stare so blind,I believed in a love who did not awakeTo see,Me, in terrible suffering.Famous, though mild,Crude, though wild,She was the stench of filth,And terrible bliss. My own beauty,Where did it vanish?Where did it leave to,In this winter of duress?Among all the pain,There is hardly any shame,To weather my
-
Upon blue irises,Folded over with lids like bird feathers,A glass of red within reach of a porcelain hand,I stare. Beauty has welcomed itself, upon this occasion,Your grace, and your face,Two eyes like twin moons upon my own,Shifting away in incredible shyness.Lovely, you are,Upon this evening of evenings.And highlighted you are,Near to a candle that stains
Modern Romanticism 