#poems
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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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Wishful moments, you hope forTo arise,But, you’ll merely lay your head forward,To cry.To weep the lands infertile soils away,And soon seen the end of days. Your eyes hang heavyUpon all times, when your head sinks on the harbor,When your body sinks on the shoreline,When your face digs into the sand,And your tears soon create the
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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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An object lesson, seeking any disclosureTo this reminiscence of your naked form,Now bandaged by the treatment of ludicrousy.You were beautiful, in my arms,Showing breast,And whispered fable from two lips of pearl.You told me secrets, that daunted my mind,You closed upon me, pain that would not ever dieWithin yourself.And, outside myself, there is a sceneryOf Hell,
Modern Romanticism 