#lovepoetry
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We are divided between currentsThat fall from eyes made of glass,And to shield our faces makes us witnessThe shame we decorate ourselves with,As we bleed.We bleed dewdrops over cheeks made of ivory,And kiss love awayAs the emotion it was,Meant to stay. Agony is now our new bliss,Our cheeks, our faces, the silver tears we kiss,Buried
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How beautifulOne such as me, can describeEach detail, with astonished eyes. Beauty is but a weakness, a place of clayThat requires the water, for sculpture.It is nothing, without the hands atop it,And so, I go to mold. I craft legs to appear as water-bent pillarsTo hold upPoseidon’s very palace, should he have one,Or a cottage,
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Who bequeathed the roseAbove your brow?Where each petal runs rampant, to fallTo meet the lips that callMy name, through the frosted walls.What love turned itselfUpon an old and delicate leaf? When beauty wakes up, and nestles besideThe stirring loneliness, of a man in a hollow form,And he lays next to a shadow.Merely a quilt that
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Oh, idleness,Unchanging woman,Who I love.There is, to you, of what I observe,A frame, myself, and you, the painting.You have beauty that thunders a spark across the skies, above.Love cannot any longer, lift it up,All I may do is sculpt it, into a memorable form, of what I knew.I knew, through portraits that still enrage me,That
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Come for me,If you dare,And step with your formless feetAcross depths, made of flesh,Perfect for your footfalls. Come and tear at me,With your eyes upon my hands,That rent apart this ocean made of rottenness,With anger in my eyes,You’ll fall inward. And I’ll fail,And fall before you,Little angel of my demise,I will submit,To beauty that keeps
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Pain is there,Beyond the door.I see blood rushing inTo my feet,And I know, very well so,That her defeat is near. Like two seasons faded from their togetherness,I was the winter you did abhor,While you were the summer, where love climbed ashore,To see the rocks as mere pebbles,And the moss that covered them,Only the comfort of
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Rise up,And take awayThis unholy painFrom the woman I once loved,She needn’t suffer this muchIn this winter of winters. Her face, once an aura of bliss,Her form, once taken by me, beneath sheets of white.And blankets made of the softest velvet,Quilts made of skin. A mattress made of us,And sweat pours over like the rain,
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Your strange aurasEmit a glow I’ve not seenWith these rotting eyes, nor touchedWith ever-more rotting fingers. What a horror, in meager contours,Drawn around your idle form.An outline that masks your fragilityWhenever you’ll wake up. I see,With eyes revealed for a grave,The listless shape of your countenanceExpressing the bliss that comes with the feeling of death.For
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Thy eyes turn towards places, where scars do not fade.They are but shells to a beating heart,Discarded, like the crab to its own shelter,But, remembered. Blankness, is to your soul, without a need to write your tale,Like the chirping of birds in the rising sun,Like the coming music of when you start sobbing.Beauty is but
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Together, and nowWhen we will allowOurselves, to spit upon the blight,The doubt,That held us back,There is green upon the leaves, when autumnal frost still cakes them.I am in belief, that this love will flourish, with a crown of blood droplets,Rubies, tears from the form,And sapphire, tears from the face.We are together, in arms, forever…To bleed
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I knew to love,What was trusted deeplyTo the nuptial part of our romance,Before an altar with primrose and tulip,And the sight of Christ upon our faces. And, it was yours he shared the most attention,As you wept, among the repeated sighs,To the warm wind of this summer height.A little droplet of morning dew nested beneath
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When I cannot love,When I cannot drownIn the arms of a one,Who took me aboveTo see what could not be undone. A woman,A face,Of splendor and beauty,Each small bit of fervency,Each frail part of tragedy,Is hers for the closingOf my heart.One streaming face,One anguished expression,Laced with the marks of a pair of hands,That had ripped
Modern Romanticism 