Loss
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Barren,Like our heart of hearts,With love as butter upon its red smoothness,Like the softest bread,And as beauty will raise itself, so will it, as well,Also fall.And as I see your eyes with their shimmering shape,I seem to not be allowed to peer furtherInto them,For they strike me as the daggers,Or the torch,Lifted to burn away
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Had that pillow caressed your feeble headMore than ever my hand could?In such comfort that death could provideTo your ever-more feeble bodyWith its trembling motions, alike the quivering leaves during Autumn,I see your chest raise itself, to a peak,And fall down,You may be ill,Though, you are in comfort. And, I am jealous of death,“To have
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Should I have known to slow the funeralUpon arriving to it?When seeing your form, in a state of no tomorrow,I breathed a sigh that revealed the cold,And gave my grief my hat to hold. Your form is as lifeless as the winter, with no shadow to show.Because, the sun has bled its last into the
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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
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Downed by displeasureTo a dying day.And then, downed by your hands,To roaring sheets,To see the evening in your eyes,And then, the sunset upon your lips.For you were the oneTo kiss the day to vanish away. My beauty, with hair so vivid in its angles,And with body stark in its curves,Alike those to the Earth,And when
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I hold one wicked smile,Within one shattered palm,As I have tamed it,Made it a name,In my house of sculptures.Beauty and conscious mind,Suffering from my delusions,Becomes paranoia,And complete fear,Because, there is a state of agonyTo behold, before me.A place for me,Next to Satan, in my house of martyrs. Beauty and beauty,Becomes foiled at my touch,Turns to
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His eyes are always weeping;His hands are always trembling;His mind is always fearful,Without her light,Without her warmth. “Love has fled,”Said the man, who bledTears, upon his knees, held closeTo his barren chest.A face of a withered personality. A man poisoned into dust,A man without the nerve to raiseHimself, from where he resides,Beneath a curtain,To keep
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I will live,Though, how can I breathe? How can I start a fire,A flameIn this heart of mine,Without the glance that brought me life? How can I state any moment of happiness,In the most genuine of words,Without what is needed,To keep me down? What finger will be placedUpon my blistered lips? What pair of eyes
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Your spirit resides in turbulence,But, a moth rests itself atop your temple,A grave sits before you, idle and waiting.There’s a place in Heaven, for you,Near the place Christ left, for you. There’s evil that runs so free,Seemingly freer than love, itself.Why do you find yourself in comfort,During when your son has shown sides to him,That
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Yellow daffodils,In raining glory from sun’s holy rays,Are there to eclipse the rain,Of truest blue,To spill forth sadness onto my skin,From wherever pain breeds,In a nest, in a heart,In a place where is shelved all that is kept. Of all your beauty,Where plays the music of a throbbing heart,Where comes the torment of a woeful
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In all my imagining,While haunting memory is the musicTo my mind in its longing,I find myself to view a paintingThat shows the curves of a naked woman,While her lips are reddenedBy the blood offered in my hands.Would I reach to kiss? I desire the wine, next,For a mask is only a shapeTo what has gaped
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Dragged at my feet,Is the unforgiving rope.Binding me, and blinding me,Because I cannot stand,And so I need aid,To be able to see,All that I have corrupted for me,Beyond the grief from the sea. You would deny me all?Reach into me, to see sweetness,And then know bitterness?I have a heart that has stopped,I reach my hands
Modern Romanticism 