Poem – “The Many Tears that Seek Shelter” – Romantic

I fell beside thee,
And formed for us, quilt made of romance.
I love all that you are, of all eyes made to be orbs,
For the future’s peering, into its watery distance.
We sail in our fear,
And quake beneath tears,
Oh, how terrible are the stars under your eyes,
You’ve made a bed for us both,
A bed of love, made fullest in silken quilts.

Famed, we have become.
In love, we are as one,
As two creatures, of Buck and Doe,
A chase, a nest upwards in Heaven.
Oh, how desire sweeps us to the current and its edge
Near a river; for how does death think of us?
Love is a muse; It is made to be you,
As you are the loveliest pearl from this shore.

Give me kisses, sweet one,
Full of life,
Full of your eyes,
With no more raining stars,
With no more idle flesh,
No more death.
Nothing but the truly fascinating face,
Of white cheeks and bleak tress.
Lovely in form, anguished at heart.

I will cure the sorrow,
The one so much alike the Mary of Christ;

For how many times have we embraced,
As vulnerability! As vulnerability!
We are only made beautiful, when loved.
Oh, love, when will be reach the shores,”
You ask to me.
I say in response to you,
Soon as the sail is full of wind, and your eyes!
When they never fall another tear, we will reach.”

Give me the benefit of a morrow,
Of a delight, not made by sorrow.
What have I, when not among you?
Nothing, for am I not without the sanity,
And insanity, that love bequeaths.

Poem – “Dreadful Longing upon a Rock” – Mythological

She was the wind,
She is now the sea,
Calling out, for sailors to breathe
Their last, upon their own thirst.
While gulls transport, from water to scrap.
While faces of Heaven see downwards to her,
They call no strength to her longing,
Her suffering,
Is for a hopeless muse.
It is an ocean that brims darkness.

A fever, she once caused,
For the sake of amusement.
She now sings for the sake of relief,
She now hearkens to her voice,
Nested atop forlorn waters,
Upon a rock,
With nary a voice else to be heard,
Lest from her,
Whose longing curves rivers to the sea.
And beauty suffers endlessly.

Death, and its silvery essence,
Of white faces and burned-out flesh,
Of amorous curves from a helpless woman,
Of the harlot with her child,
Deprive her, the longing one, of her filthy pain.

Lose the denial,
For the meager while,
Name her sake to exist,
And place each pain on a list,
Scrawled by poets who are martyrs.
And translated,
By scribes from the Vatican.
Nuns and their habits,
Form faces of worry,
As all Hell falls between a woman’s memory.

Once a virgin, now a woman,
Now a creator of alarm,
In want for whatever else serves,
She sings the lone pain,
Deprived of any love, a futile love.

Make her famous, for Heaven’s kiss,
For God’s angelic mercy.
Make her the most wanted being,
Of sculpted flesh, of hanging breast.
Oh, God!
Oh, Christ!
Her putrid form is an encasing,
Over that which all have longed,
In the stagnant misery.
Oh, there is youth so gone!

By her wicked feathery wings,
Black as night, and her lips
That are drenched in her tears and blood;
By her desires, of everyone’s shame,
And her thirsty groin,
Two breasts as two apples,
And a mind of no one’s kind;
She is unloved, and so am I.
She’s lost the beauty she’ll ever be,
For a lover was never, her sanctuary.