Poem – “The Beauty of Her” – Romance

In admiration of your form,
Upon the pedestal where you stand,
The base to make you a statue,
Raised high enough for viewing eyes.
In loving you, I have made art,
I have made a woman of marble.

I love thee, with all thy famous beauty.
Console me, dear one, with all the infamous tragedy.
The fallen tears, down from your cheeks,
Will come to my tongue,
Love and Heaven are twins,
In this rising moment.

I look, and I see,
All the famous beauty.
Behold, before me is a woman of stone,
Of greenish and blueish marble,
Cast by hands that trembled,
Formed by a mind within rivers of fear.

Come find me, if you can,
Shell of a man, that I am.
I speak to me,
Above golden seas,
To see if I can,
See all that I am.

What a man, who cannot even comprehend,
That his sanity has fled,
Far from him.

I see beauty made from stone,
Lips turned from a softness,
To an utter solid.

Life cannot ever stem from her womb.
Life cannot ever make something of itself,
From her bosom,
To gorge itself upon the milk,
That will flow like nectar or honey,
From breasts concealed in thread.

Allow me to realize,
The final graces, of my madness,
My gladness must cease,
All the faiths to this lost world,
For I am one with only my brush;

My hammer;
My pick;
And my brain,
That throbs with echoes so like Poe,
Or Bulwer,
Famed in the agonies of delusion.

Oh, ye famous beauty.
Love has never been of us,
I see no flesh of warmth,
But cold from stone!
Though, I shall form thy hands,
To make you blow a farewell kiss.

Poem – “I Cast Thee in Marble” – Romance

With fewest steps to climb,
In an amorous avalanche of emotion,
Wandering upwards, to where a face
Glistens, and has been frozen.
I, with marble, in hand,
Smear its molten material upon thee,
And make thee a face of beauty and frailty,
Because, I have come from the realm of love.

Eyes gilded as sapphires,
And lips swiped upon, with ruby
Paint; and listless, is thy worn face,
Because, thou art continually raped.
A face of so much shame, for what was lost,
A virgin to the sword, and a blameless sleep.
A state of grief to the most pitied sheep,
I am for thee, and must build ye, on high.

Death makes unique phosphorous,
Of deadened things, so that thy breasts
Will glisten, and make a sight to behold.
When I love, I love with a stricken self,
I love with all the sadness of the earth,
Because, it has all been placed in the greenest
Marble, and has been frozen by me.
Love at my feet, and sympathy in my arms.

I toss all thy kind messages to the skies,
Safety and gratuity, all hurled into the sharp winds.
Love is a blessing when found through comfort,
I know, for I have made the finest delicacy.
The woman of marble, made in tidiness,
Made with grace, with arms extended, and legs
Placed together, in firmness, and modesty.
When I love, I make, and in the making, I undo myself.