Literature
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With one wicked remarkBy your feathered tongue,A lightness in your voice,To soothe me,Down into unwarranted pain.And the sting comes upon my arms,And my legs,And my neck,Is enough to be drunk. I would call this pleasure,Were the levels not so different,Between yourself and me.And were our faces not so different,Of your own and my own.I am
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Upon thy broken and velvet back,There is a tiny frailness,A little bird without wings,It sits, while I sit, and I paint,To see what I’ve always envisioned,A woman with eyes like onyx stonesWithin a lake of sapphire,And a face of pure porcelain,Dotted with freckles like leaves in another lakeOf immaculate white milk. But, the bird atop
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She would bow,And I’ll raise her up.She cannot disavowThe words we said before an altar,To go on towards another place,Another place I cannot conquer.What of her heart? What of the heartThat knows how to beat, only whenThe birth of beauty starts,During whenHer cheeks flare upon my touch to her skin?What of her heart,What of the
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Now we speak the tuneAs it draws close to attentive ears,Among all our waning years,Failure upon our cold and scarred shoulders,The tune of how a clock ticksEach passing, miserable momentTo a barren winter. I have been in love for a while,Until I have drawn so close to emptiness.Misery is always a comfortAnd a reminder,A little
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Romantic and justUs, ourselves, in arms,With tulips that surround,Primrose and all alike,Sweetness is aboundUpon our nostrils, and they cleanse!They were meant to turn awayOur Hellish nightmares,Our bleakness,Into the most pleasant of dreams. I am in love with the greatest of women,The feeblest of women,Who has ice upon her eyelids,And greater solidity in her heart.I have
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Come closer,Frail one, to my door,Where you’ve heard these screams before.Where my limbs had once crashedTo the floor,And had then risenTo meet your throat,With a solid grip to drain life away. Pain and shame is now an empire,Among all the redness to your lips.You’ve tasted blood,Have you not?Your dream for lonelinessHas become a sheer reality.
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Within one life of prior viewing,I once could see beautyBefore myself, with all its liveliness.I once saw a woman with darkest hair and darkest eyes,I once saw herself adorned in garments of black,I once saw her in pallid skin, readied for kisses.And I see myself now, painted in a mask,Of defeat and grief. How has
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Beauty recedesAs the ocean and its fluidsUpon stark shores,Masking us in its amassing plenty.I still hold your hand,Despite my eyes upon this dark ocean. Each recession,Each regression,Is like swallowing another tear.And each wave against my feet,Is like one drop upon my knees,During when I am curled up against defeat. Love should hold hands with love,Beauty
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A foolish criminal,For I murdered a love,We had shared with wine and blood,With sweetness and bitterness,Among the beauty and the ugliness,With sugar and sand. Love should be our Thanksgiving,A memory we should treasure,Though, I had murdered it, and left a bird to rot. I would thank myself,For being alive,But, I am nothing but a criminal,Who
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I fell upon, the highest romance,As an angel, centered upon his flight,Downwards, I descendedTo see, where I caught, my sight.Love was a plaything, once to me.Love is now a treasure, befitted to seeFor its ornaments, upon nuptial evenings,And songs sung aloud, in credible musings. Downwards, I flew, destined to showWhat I know, to be, the
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Wasted tomorrows,And grueling eternities,Are in short supplyTo the blow that struck upon innocence,And created the loudest rhythm.I have emotions, do I not?I bleed the grandest colors,To a world that cannot see them,For they are divided,Between success and failure. Love is where we stareTo the sky.Love is where we reachTo the other endOf a lone and
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Known by Heaven,Of my own illness,That is linked by two.Illness of love, illness of death,And I am caught between,As life beneath the shallows. And I see where kisses hang loosely on your lips,The very beauty who has left me,For I see your phantom,A vision, born from a medicated body. I wish it were real,Though, you
Modern Romanticism 