#lovepoems
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My heart fills with the solitudeOf a thousand-and-one waking nightmares,Up from the deep blue,Where each horror had slept in deepest rest.With the sun burning high above,Not nearly enough,To wear down my discarded loveThat does not dry on the soft sands. Love is a failure, upon my weary shoulders,For my death is near.I can hear them
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Like love held onto a melodyOf heartstrings plucked for the choir to hear,And it was your sighs among sorrows and tears.Like love that created the symphonyFor the each of us,To muse upon the two hands, held apart from the other,And over the aching stomach.It was for our fear,Among everything that came so nearTo coming true.
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In your honor,Or in your horror,In the fable of a devotion, upon a wreath that decoratesYour forehead and brow.In the many words uttered on the tablet,My mouth walks in the wild, of a forest made for the lost. In moments, keeping with your positionIn history’s books, adorning the walls,Upon the bookcases,Adorning the hallsThat are set
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I gave from withinThe merriment of a certain whim,Gifted from a heart, made of solidified embers.Of the sparks that dance sideways with the twisting breezes,I was the angel without a voice, who gave unto the distantMy heart, with itself in drenched pale hues. She, a woman with deepening hurts,Deepening sorrows.I could not let her see
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Hell is a patient sort,Willing to wait for itself to coverWhat we will name to be human. What is it to be merciful?To have said this, is to meanThat there are deeper things, than Hell. For I believe,That even Hell can be burned from our life.Its fires are meager. Hell is still a patient sort,Willing
Modern Romanticism 