Literature
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Keep your eyes closed,And focused uponHow we dance upon,Loose petals upon these lashes,Lashes black and heavy,Hanging with the loose and weighty tears.And among all the demonic curves,To your handsome form,There is beauty radiating everywhere.There is the Autumn, with its guiding chill,Pulling us towardsThe lonely valley with its fading breath.There is great wind from two distant
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Love will never go as planned,Not like we demand,Here’s an altar for your wisdom, your teachings,A sea of suffering is for your body,For you to swim in all tears we’ve collected.Yet, could you stand the salt?The taste of pain in your mouth,Might be enough to protect. Why had we loved?Why had we never sinned,Even as
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The firmament of a woman,An idle focus,On ever-idler blood,Her heart holds the face of swelling sadness,A music that describes miseryIn untold tempests,With waves that roar against her form,And tears that beckon their coming upon simple cheeks.What flame has been extinguished?What pair of eyes no longer look? What seeming fault,Have I been elsewhere to overlook?What denial
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Myself was broken in one,My heart is broken into smallest pieces,At this very moment.And I would love to kissThe lips of tragedy.It is not as urgent,As to kiss the lips of quietness,To calm this groaning heart. Your face of mine,With kisses tender,Kisses quiet,Kisses soothing.It was a matter of factTo my mind,That I’d be able to
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Outside my reachWas a love,Was a heart of a woman,Was the kiss of a life,It would not happen.It would not happen. And I am filled with the grief,Of a thousand eternities,With this pain to my heart.This poet’s hand of mine,Is disallowed to swipe a tear,He swipes syllables,And writes them dear,Writes them with fear. I have
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Stuck upon the stare,I am.With swollen grief, so aware,To the current AutumnAnd its fountains of frost.The mist pushes my heart closed,And I feel all surrounding pain.All surrounding, alike the air I breathe,As it is the same, within. Love was my currency,And my feast.Love was my heart,And its attack upon my heart.Now it flows like the
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A bled wound upon the pageSeeks to rewrite virginity,In the named events to this day.I am something of a man,Loyal to loyalty.You were something of a woman,Loyal to realism’s mind.And I foresaw a place embeddedIn the white garb of a veil,In nothing uncertain for what I decidedWould only be my dream. My heart now bleeds,Flesh
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She has controlled her beauty with evenness. Symmetry within every detail, and symmetry, especially among her smile. I have asked myself a question, if love would be the thing to hold her hand, or perhaps I have, as a flawed man, all the while. I speak these words to resonate myself with guilt. It is
Modern Romanticism 