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.
Modern Romanticism 