Never
let, Heaven hear,
The great mockery, of my fruit,
I was thoughtless, yet here you are,
To bare the nakedness, of my suit.
The
reckless approach, to danger,
My uncertainties, begone!
Never broken, never saved.
Never, but beloved, to the brave.
You
wilted, as to my own,
Brethren, of my hope,
Abandoned, with my chalice,
Of frozen bitterness.
Unfurl
the wicked remarks, of death,
Disgust, for the crude,
Burdened with grief, mothered by love,
Anguished, by God’s vanity.
Stillness evokes, the bitter strife,
Winter trees, tore off this life.
Lisette wore a mask, to conceal,
The terrors of love, to reveal.
She echoed a panic, of pain,
Within forests bleak, by shame.
I wandered, the terrible night,
Exploring Lisette, in bitter blight.
Some tune rung, from the trees,
Receiving, my crying pleas.
I questioned, “What dost God lack?
Behind the gale, or frozen black?”
Lisette, whom I sincerely praised,
With a cold distress, gently raised.
She, who rivaled, holy grounds,
Prepared to meet, above mounds.
Frozen brook near, tethered by fear,
I spoke once more, for Lisette’s lore.
She spoke, with winter as silence.
“Oh, pity you! Shall you enter.
Into kind domain, still withered,
Cometh colors of eyes weathered!”
Lisette, curves of fingers slender,
Gave forest night, its blackened light.
The great art of her grace, knows not of the poor,
Now to crawl, along the sands,
To the rocks, upon the shore.
In
simplicity, of revulsions,
There was joy, in her eyes,
One, who cared, for nothing more,
‘Cept, for an echoed cry.
For
this, I had given her place,
Within my poor certain heart.
Of,
my meager desires,
She offered, no surprise,
By the voice, that carried,
Her, through the earth.
She
stole the fragrance, from blossoms,
As England breathed, its farewells.
She
knew, of my own trials,
Through which, I only longed.
These
were, the very contemplations,
That spoke, for empty years.
Yet,
as I mingled stains,
With my soul, of winter,
To which, I now bequeath,
A word, of praise.
“I
was the one, you craved,
The empty shell, you saved.
Neither one, could forge the tune,
That played below, the forest’s moon.
Nor could we, share the soil,
That will pull, our bodies down,
Let up, the one within,
My soul, which I opened.”
The
great art of her grace, knows not of the poor,
Now to crawl, along the sands,
To the rocks, upon the shore.
“You offer a pauper love, then he or she will not recognize it. They cannot eat love. They cannot drink love. They do not understand that, even as a metaphor.”
Q: Why is it that you believe modesty is related to love?
A: It is because when one does away with clothing, one does away with modesty. After doing this, one only sees their own flesh. One sees truth, and truth always frightens the individual. Modesty is, therefore, the protection of truth, or even the burying of truth.
Q: And what is that truth, or could you describe it?
A: All truths, be they many, reside upon the flesh. The surface of the land, in before there are inhabitants walking on the surface of that land, hide all things that were life, but are now dead, below it. Ashes, as the word follows, are beneath the earth, having adopted the role of fertilizer.
Q: Then, truth is the flesh, and how is it that people are frightened?
A: In the same way that people are frightened or humiliated by their own nudity in public, it is not so the same with the harlot. She will show her nudity out of a shameless endeavor. This occurs naturally as well in the woman who is married to her spouse. She shows nudity without any shame. Though, such fear is also there for the rapist and the girl, as the girl feels total shame and more, for such a terrible experience.
Q: What is above truth?
A: Love is above truth.
Q: Why is love above truth? Isn’t truth linked to love?
A: In understanding what I am saying, there are tyrants who find the truth to be so appealing, that they would laugh at it. In doing so, they seek to hide it. On the opposite end, there are those who are not tyrants, though when they see the truth, they weep before its presence. These are the people who reveal it. Weeping in either happiness or sadness, for tears also come when people laugh. Truth is hidden by love, in the same fashion as truth is recognized for how it appears. Truth is always recognized. Suspicion and paranoia are the seekers of truth.
Q: Though, why does a person ever hide truth? Why is it that love should hide truth from another person?
A: Out of kindness.
Q: Kindness?
A: Kindness is the reason why someone who loves another may hide the truth out of love for them. Even when a tyrant recognizes what is truthful, he will hide it. He will hide out of a sinister sort of kindness against those he aims to fill with denial. As love is also a motivation, it motivates a true loving someone to also hide truth, so that the truth does not hurt truly hurt another. Have there been those who hide such truth, out of kindness for those who may become victims to a revolt, should the truth be discovered? Yes, it has continually happened. Although, it is because the word “kindness” is merely a slave at the command of either deception or honesty.
Q: And what is below truth?
A: Death.
Q: Death is below truth? How is this?
A: Reality is not the same thing as truth. Reality is merely clarity. Truth is awareness, and opposite from blindness and conformity. A skeleton is related to a pauper, because the pauper is most likely emaciated. Above that skeleton is flesh; that is truth. Above that truth is modesty; that is love, or clothing, or shelter, or a home.
Q: What do the impoverished desire?
A: What the impoverished desire differs from what someone who is not impoverished desires for the impoverished. Through recognition, the wealthy comprehend love, because they have a home, easily able to shelter a pauper. Though, the pauper will not recognize that love from that wealthy one, who might be selfless. They will, in fact, merely recognize that wealthy one, as wealthy, whose wealth could be spared.
Q: So what does one do for the impoverished?
A: You offer a pauper love, then he or she will not recognize it. They cannot eat love. They cannot drink love. They do not understand that, even as a metaphor. They will recognize flesh, because that is their yearning. Offer a pauper flesh, and they will recognize truth. For as both truth and love be a yearning, a pauper must sate themselves with flesh, before love.
You were the woman, who awoke, among strangeness,
Death, had divided your territory; life, had conquered you.
Beauty nestled itself, in the fragrance, of your neck,
Love crept upwards, to your lips, and laid kisses, deep.
In the strangeness, of my strength,
That which, would not wane,
All beauty, I tore, with bare hands,
Blood rose, to meet, my nostrils,
An enemy, I made, of myself,
Now bowing, to dine, upon hell.
I loved, with the music, of murder, and the torment, of guilt,
Death was the treat, of my sadistic art,
And the pill, that gave me pleasure.
I see with eyes, so bright,
A being, pale, and cold.
I melt into, the taste, of skin,
And fall upward, to a rising spirit.
Pain laid gently, on my conscience,
Soon to feel, for the next union,
Of another heart, that beat slowly, no more.
We had loved, without glimpses, to our present,
Allowing its gift, to surge, through our hearts,
We had called upon, love to swell,
Dancing on shores, where waters collected.
I do love thee, with all the flames, of my heart,
I love thy beauty, with all the light, that flickers.
I leave thee, to roam, among the planet’s edge,
I leave, for the music, of my soul, has lifted,
To new heights, beyond thee.
I gave thee ground, to tread,
To see this empire, as meager, as soiled,
But to pity me, is to find emptiness,
You’d find it greater, than what I’d built.
In drawing upon beauty, a blade of skin,
Marking myself, my name, into your silk,
In conquering thee, I gave plentiful graces,
To the sea, and to the sky, my domain.
You are loved, no longer.
My beauty, my pain, my shame.
Utter demises, and utter bliss,
Therefore, to walk alone, is my wish.
What had dominated white?
It was black, that dominated white.
It was the universe, that shrouded the moon.
It was the universe, that shrouded the sun.
Bombarded my guilt, to deadness.
And I grieved, no more.
When
Mary, came to nurse,
A tree, by the lake,
I saw, with feeble eyes, and feeble heart,
A darkness, across lips, to kiss.
And she struck me, with a gaze!
Made me forget, my woes.
I danced akin, to the harlot’s motion,
When beauty, nestles only on black.
What
had dominated white?
It was black, that dominated white.
It was the universe, that shrouded the moon.
It was the universe, that shrouded the sun.
Bombarded my guilt, to deadness.
And I grieved, no more.
Oh,
Mary. By the well, where you dwelled,
Made to suffer, made for hell.
Your absence, was the darkness, of me,
As I turned, in Christ’s direction, to plea.
A sickness, reveled in me,
Drunken on curses, that sickened thee.
Mary with pleasures, thwarted,
Mary with children, bloodied,
Mary with jewels, become rotted,
Mary with misery, remembered.
Winter drained
itself, upon my knees,
In holding the cross, to your grave.
I saw, with feeble stare,
The stars, upon your eyes.
They that saw, the infinity, in our love,
And knew, it to be a lie.
I would only fight, to see tomorrow,
And now, I cradle death, in transparent arms.
In a moment, that knows, how to weep,
I sing a song, to grieve.
Blessings told by priests, and their hymns, of loudness,
As if to awaken, the dead, from their slumber.
I drew white, around white,
A sheet, about a body,
While a rose, stood atop, your crown,
A nest, of tresses, shows the hue, of ice.
A tear falls,
from my cheek, to my chin,
I left it there, for my kin to see,
And for my kin, to salvage.
Oh, the evergreen,
Was beside the deep,
How She rose from blue,
To dance with the sun.
Oh, crescent moon,
Whose shape remains,
How Mary blessed Mars,
To roam with the vast.
Oh, roaring fire,
From the widest shore,
How simply it sparks,
To laugh with the lone.
Oh, caring mother,
With paleness of flesh,
How children cling on,
To shout with the strong.
With glances, of blue,
Skin, of ivory,
You shall wear, a crown,
Dressed, in simplicity.
You
mourned, the frozen wastes,
With tranquil beliefs, that shaped worlds,
I knew, the ending, to your plight,
But saw, only my life, in twists.
There
is beauty, in every love,
With statues, cast from marble,
Risen, towards the emerald,
In forests, of secret safety.
With
the illusion, that dips a leaf,
Adorned with petals, and thorns,
Into the silk, of a woman’s breast,
I find the essences, of worship…
…and
those, that destroy,
Shall break, the evening tide.
With
glances, of blue,
Skin, of ivory,
You shall wear, a crown,
Dressed, in simplicity.
There
were moments, that were holy,
The meager silence, that sought,
To poison, the fruit above us,
Rained discolored wine, instead.
The
joys, that lovers, hold dear,
Are naught, but ashes and snow.
Soft, with blessings, of sadness,
Departure, for the listless.
If
I wished, for the nothing,
My love, shall grow, anew.
Violet skin, when blushing bright.
Take all to sin, in desperate flight.
Send the priests, fleeing,
All full in hands, to the night.
What
would I name, my empire,
Where this David, flies to fire?
To be handsome, or to be cruel,
You’d tease also, of love’s kind rule.
In
ample markings, I observe,
The simple art, of highest curves.
What wickedness! In breasts.
Wine for lips, in bitter taste.
Allow, of the listless rest.
In one finger’s, lawful haste.
When
noticing, the toes below,
To walk, in untold steps, so slow.
I am allowed, to fill my glass,
By all which flows, into thy mass.
Violet
skin, when blushing bright.
Take all to sin, in desperate flight.
Send the priests, fleeing,
All full in hands, to the night.
When
thy belly, of palest moon,
Is sweet in seed, in dismal bloom,
There shall come, to lovely sweat,
A shell of love’s, beauty kept.
In
contours, I count, each falling tress,
To meager face, of sheer failing youth,
Uncover, each bit, of nestling skin,
In hearing shame, from weary red mouth.
To
grip, the waist, of thy body,
Shall be there, for my possession,
To the deep place, of my pity,
Had we sold, our cries to ashes.
Here, the moon raises, to a peak,
To draw the curves, of your form.
I was right, when I asked,
“When, will I become forlorn?”
The
sensible grief,
That turned upon a leaf,
Never clung to the tree,
For the world to see.
Your
lonely heart, departs,
From the soul, of me.
I
saw, the mark on your face,
Revealing sadness, in place.
I
view, the sights you saw,
Of every, meager flaw.
Here,
the moon raises, to a peak,
To draw the curves, of your form.
I was right, when I asked,
“When, will I become forlorn?”
Your
dress, of rich blues,
Blooms my soul, brand new.
The Earth, knew,
How love, grew.
The
empty, slender form,
Of which I, hold dearly,
‘Twas death, that parted love,
From my gray heart, freely.
Modern Romanticism 