Modern Romanticism

The aspect of romance, divided between the heartening and the thoughtful.

Poem – “Your Form like the Crawling Sea” – Romance – 12/9/2019

December 9, 2019

A mind made with shelves, adorned in the books
That read the past with much awareness,
And a heart that recedes with the tide
Of a bloody sea.

No fault could ever welcome itself
Into your open arms,
For you possess a form,
That outdoes even the sea with its many currents,
And many curves,
From cresting waves.

I am in love with a woman I have envisioned
To be my partner in life.
Her form, though, is a sight of great admiration,
With beauty to each mark,
And with a belly that exhales the breath to sing,
Resonating as the startled lark.
With tresses that rain to shoulders and neck,
And then to a pair of snowy legs,
That seem to stand, as the statue does,
Upon its base.

A form, and also a face,
Beauty is the notion, I have come to know,
By all your radiance, upon skin so immaculate in hue,
And desirous, as something I never knew.
For you have eyes that wander the extent of that form,
For seduction’s sake.
My eyes, as well, see the world over,
But never the sea,
Beautiful, in everywhere I have seen,
And marvelous, in white skin that bleeds the sheen.


A Man’s Personal Thoughts – “The Suicidal Ideation” – 12/9/2019

December 9, 2019

Guilt sure is a sweetness upon my bitter tongue. A tongue that has spoken many regretful words, to people I’ve known to love.

And I’ve grown tired of myself…

I reflect in these thoughts, knowing that the pain is like building blocks to create a better tomorrow. Regret and reflection are so much intertwined, alike the monster that dwells in the darkness, and only ever the darkness, because the light creates the fear. Darkness is a comfort, for the monster. He would hang himself by his own spilled entrails, should a slayer come with sword flashing to cut open the monster’s belly. It would finish itself.

A monster chews upon its own flesh.

A monster rejects the opportunity to see their past, for how could a monster within the shadows, tell apart shadow from shadow? To a monster, each shadow to represent a past, may as well also represent the future.

Guilt is a sweetness, and I have drenched myself in its honey. I have found myself to nibble on the sugar that comes between guilt’s hind legs. It is an animal, and I find myself the bestial someone, to drink from that darkness.

Love had once found its way. But, it had been a dream, and the sun is unreachable.

The sun is too hot, and I am only a monster, eagerly swallowing his own filth and brine, because guilt is a sweetness, a tangy flavor, to be savored like the most cherished of wines in France.

Shadows are so much alike a mother, so much alike a woman with a past, like the few creatures upon this Earth who care for life; and, even more-so, alike the wind that pushes the flower to curtsy towards the future.

May the past also do the same, for me?

May I ever see the repairs done, by these two hands that had broken much of myself?

Poem – “The Message Behind your Lips” – Romance – 12/8/2019

December 8, 2019

The distilled honey
From a thousand flowers
That blossomed nectar,
To meet the sun,
And shone there,
High above,
In the early noontide of this spring day.

I came away
To see thee,
And soon set upon a path
In a forest of green,
Lost and unaware
To my motions,
For they were as your own.

Stumbling through these narrow pathways
Beneath feet covered in stone,
I groped for a vine,
And only saw what I held before myself,
Being the hair that I always held,
Torn from a head,
Being yours.

I came away
To see thee, in a sea of loneliness,
And blew smoke from my lungs,
When love held its own above,
In a radiant Heaven.
Beauty caused us both to flinch,
Though, the hair still was clenched in fingers, heavy.

I clenched what I drew back,
What were the longest tresses
I knew to be,
A deeper tragedy.
A solemn hour upon my lap,
A beautiful heart in your bosom,
Quaking from all the shaking.

We were lovers for perhaps a minute,
Until we were dead for a moment.

You, a lady of the night,
And me,
Just a man with a burden to offer
A world that seems light as a burned feather.

Words of Wisdom – “When we Ban the Gun, we Ban the Camera…” – Pt. 2 – Political Philosophy – 12/8/2019

December 8, 2019

“In the banishment of the gun, there should also be the banishment of the camera. And why is this?

What other reason, than to know how the camera pertains itself to the conscious and subconscious mind?

In a world of honesty and dishonesty, there is love, which strikes the heart. The gun will have to strike the body, while the camera strikes the mind.

And how is this?

The camera raises pleasant truths, while it descends unpleasant truths. Like the mind, that raises pleasant truths, or ‘reality’ into the conscious and aware mind; and also like the mind, that descends ‘unpleasant truths’ into the subconscious and unaware mind.

The camera does this, too, by isolating what should be seen from what should not be seen.

Love is an emotion that captures the heart. The camera is a device that captures ‘only what is needed to be seen’, while the gun is a tool that destroys the body.

Why wouldn’t we banish the camera, if we banish the gun, as well?

If a Democrat hates guns, then it hates honesty by its objective definition, which is…

…to ‘Do harm unto the body at the scale of whatever truth was spoken, hard enough to be either an eventual suicide, or a beating.’ Suicide, of course, as the reaction of shock. And with a beating? Shock results from blood loss.

Truth targets the body. Deception targets the mind. Love… will always target the heart.”

Poem – “When the Evening Met Her Lips” – Romance – 12/8/2019

December 8, 2019

Downed by displeasure
To 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 one
To 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 you turn, the Earth turns,
When you twist, the Earth rotates
Upon an axis to make it winter,
When each flake of snow will descend
To meet your warm cheeks.

Delicate one,
Frail one,
With lightness to every step
That you make, upon this evening’s wake,
I’ll kiss those cheeks, for they appear
Somber enough for me to hear
Little remnants of sadness, quaking in your heart,
And how could that be?

How could,
That you would
Chew up still,
Misery’s fill?

I had thought
To have bought
Away the madness from your eyes,
So no longer do we dwell, in our lies.

Make it evening, forever,
So that we may see the shadows, cast over
Our debt, our currency to love,
Our pleasures, to our necessities from above.

Words of Wisdom – “To Be a Believer in Nothingness” – Philosophy on Religion – 12/8/2019

December 8, 2019

“A believer in a world of no authority stems from Atheism. There are those who are frantic about the state of their own individualism, and thus, we have Atheism even in those who are not Atheists, or devoted Atheists, themselves. We have those who are desperate to keep, which becomes the keeping of their duties, until the act of ‘letting go’, and ennui and apathy becomes the central attention, of such people. They become a believer in nothingness. For even those who repeat the slogan, to ‘be yourself’ are Atheists, in the exact definition of the word. Atheism transfers over to a state of centrality. To understand the self, becomes the mindset of any Atheist, when opposite from the belief that another, such as God, understands the self. ‘How many hairs are upon your head?’ a Christian may ask, and he’ll say next that, ‘only God knows.’ Every developing Atheist, begins to believe only in the self, upon one point, unless if it isn’t the case, then they aren’t the true Atheists. If they possess belief, as in, to not be the ‘believer in nothingness’, or if they possess faith, then how can they be an Atheist? To make it blunt in expression, there is no such thing as a ‘total’ Atheist, for even the Atheist devoted to their ways, will be contradicting to their cause. Do they trust the word of their mother? Yes. Do they trust the wisdom of their own children? Yes. And, would they look upwards to the authority of legality and claimed leadership? One would hope so. In such a case, no person can name themselves to be an Atheist, in any whole sense.”

Poem – “As you were Enamored in my Eyes” – Romance – 12/7/2019

December 7, 2019

I filled my eyes with the droplets of joy
To believe in you,
During when I had believed in you,
The delicate iris for my eye.
With each petal I had then plucked
To the greatest farewell,
And the shortest goodbye.

Your beauty was the sun,
And the moon, combined.
Resplendent, as a radiant star,
And how I could hold you, when you were under my eyes,
So that tears would fall to meet your mouth,
As my kisses fell to meet your mouth.
And my arms seem to be still around you.

You delicate thing,
You beautiful thing,
You porcelain thing.
How I’ll yearn to cradle your head, in the future.
How I’ll wish to kiss your tired eyes, in the future.
And it won’t happen,
Because it won’t come.

So my tears only fall to meet a shadow
That stands still at my feet.

Prose – “My Dear Departed Lady” – Romance – 12/6/2019

December 6, 2019

Once, on a road, within a carriage, I lashed those reigns against the mare’s rear, and fled forward to the North. For I saw a star, with a sign I knew well to be part of it. A little note a blew free from my mouth, mingling with the frost in a silver breath, for it was nearly winter.

The month of December drew the evening into a tide. A tide of tears and bitterness, for I was with my beloved’s form. She passed from an illness I know not of its origin. Still, I rode with all my mare’s might towards the North, to see the graves of my family. Their horror, I could imagine to be alike mine, for I am one to weep frequently. But, their horror not only to see me, were they to live, though to see the beauty that rested in a delicate mode, is unfathomable.

Little woman who was beside me, with her eyes upon blackness, as her lids were closed, and her form pressed into the cushion beneath herself; I could see herself quite warm in whatever nestled area she made for herself in Heaven.

Death is a strange element for life to, one day, experience, for she appeared as warm and comfortable as though she never passed. As though she were prepped in the garbs befitting that cold and shameful day. It was as if the bloodless cold to her skin were something of no bother to her.

My dear departed lady was dressed in black, to match her state. Death, it was, and I could never bring her back, for I am not Christ. Though, I prayed to him to do what I could not. And, though it did not happen, and because it did not happen, I have to admit that my faith slipped, if only a tad.

I am in terrible torment, in memory of that day, for as I rode close to see the star, it began to shimmer and distort itself, ever-more; and, ever-more did it also seem to drown itself away from me, unwilling to allow me to embrace it. It had to have only been my mind, in its own state, as one of paranoia. My woman, my love, and how beautiful she had been in life!

Betrayed by love, I am, and I speak not of my beloved, for she is at fault for nothing. I speak ill of the emotion, only, as my mind expected the everlasting and the utmost, from it.

The mare, the horse, rode forward towards the gleaming and fading light. And I discovered something on the way. With the fading light, I, too, began to shimmer as something I believed never to be possible.

Was I dead, too, unable to believe in it?

Like a light, like a belief, like a faith I knew I once had, I am now telling of a scene that was upon a time, in a bleak history.

But, I speak of the past, like something dimly lit in my mind. It is as if I were somewhere I know not even of the place, at the moment I speak of this. Am I cherished in where I belong? The little home about me, with its four walls, and the rocking chair where I am seated. What is this place? The hues are shadows, while the darkness is the sunlight beaming inside.

Am I lost upon this road?

Words of Wisdom – “To Define Religion…” – Philosophy on Religion – 12/6/2019

December 6, 2019

“We sometimes speak ill on the word ‘religion’, while sometimes speaking ill on the word ‘zealot’. ‘Faith’ and ‘fanaticism’ co-exist with all else, not merely a church with its steeple, nor a Biblical story with dust upon its pages. There are no statues nor statuettes required, nor does there need to be a thousand-and-one worshipers as followers and dedicated priests. There merely needs to be the simple something, to become the complication for everyone’s detriment. An Atheist, who calls himself a ‘believer in nothing’, will place firmness or structure on the word ‘faith’, than what faith really holds by way of definition. To be clear, ‘faith’ holds the same definition as trust in practicality. The Zealot will believe in God’s ability by way of His practicality. There is no sense in this, because what differs science from religion, is practicality for the former, and impracticality in the latter. However, desperation will be both the pleading of a one who submits before God, and the weapon to be used to keep others in line. This is dominant and prominent, on both sides. Love should be the only focus for religion, being an emotion of no practicality. Love has no applied usage for it, in the same sense that we do not ‘utilize’ a beloved, because they are seen, by us, as humans, not robots to be tools or simple slaves.

It is the way with an Atheist, with a scientist, to use the same zealotry for ‘dependency’s’ sake, to turn practicality into the true use. Does science have followers? It does. Does science have devotees? It does. Religion thought God practical, only through desperation. And now when science seeks answers, it does so through question, and for a population to ask such questions, for science to offer them answers. This is the same as if a Bishop were to offer bread to a starving pauper.

However, as we know by now, a ‘conclusion’ is the same as the ‘subjective’ way of thought, when we add ‘Democracy’ into the picture of science. This means that ‘taste’ and ‘opinion’ will have more of a prominence than absolution. With absolution, no further discoveries are made in the subject for scientific advancement. We have ‘conclusions’, and so we compare such a word to ‘flavors’ for any food or beverage. We have consumerism, and we have appetite. We have devolution, as well, and confusion to add.”

Prose – “A Little Romance before a Mirror” – Romance – 12/6/2019

December 6, 2019

Just as I could glance no more upon her aching form, in where I had put my hands, my head turned sideways. To see what I should not have seen, or what could not be seen, in that scene of pain. I was with hands to her throat, while my famous and sharpest dagger, cut through flesh to open it, wide again, after whatever other lover had come her way.

A harlot, and a little wanderer, through streets when lamps will dance in a flame. And I had killed her! A devilish doing for myself, and I do not count this among my achievements. She had been so frail, the tiniest thing to see through, and I next chose to see the mirror, to her reflection.

A ghostly and ghastly image! An apparition that cut through me, as I did to her! A vile and twisted shadow to a woman, once alive with passion and enticement! It gnarls my form, and twists it free of the blood I claim to be my life, in such a way to make me weak at the knees.

And, I would bow to her, were she to flinch, at this moment, when there is nothing to her, besides a decrepit and loose form.

I could kneel, were she to twitch this delicacy called a woman’s body. I’d then ask for her hand, to marry her, out of a simple desire to be reprieved from this terror before me, in the reflection. For it would not at all be something for seriousness, not for the genuineness of one marriage in bliss; no, only to be forgiven.

I had not wanted what I see, and am stuck upon. An image for my punishment, and I cannot question it. I cannot question what is meant for me. The devil is in this bedroom, a harlot on the bed, now dead, and my own body is in the heat of a torment, so raw.

Love had never drawn itself into myself, for my own protection, so well, as now. I cradle a few strands above my brow, and say I shouldn’t be to blame, in sudden denial. In sudden denial, I attempt to move from the room.

And I do! I do move, and quickly advance to the door, to open it.

I see the hallway, and what do I do besides fall?

My heart. It has eclipsed, itself.

And I am as dead as the harlot I had slain.