Her ethereal,
Becomes commonplace,
When as the witness,
To the sight of depravity.
The sight of God,
Too bright,
For wicked stains,
Of blight,
To make a grand performance,
For the mark of love.
She has the form of an infant,
But the exquisiteness of the priestess.
She has the desires of Eve,
And the embellishments of Adam.
She has the warmth from the sun,
Though, the coldness from the moon
Will bend closer for the kiss.
The destitute pauper, is me, and forgotten.
The lid has opened,
To my frigid heart.
My pain comes forth,
From a contented Hell.
A surge,
A sibling called Appetite,
Has craved the heart,
Of her, the despair.
I am solidness,
She is a base,
For my liquid structure,
To become hate.
She is the only moon,
To have a singular face.
And the only doubt,
That I cannot race.
Modern Romanticism 