Poet
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Extinguished stars. I am callingfor other gateways. I am remindingmyself, that when I fall,I am merely departing from wheremy life had always stalled.When fears are lit, to becomeblack ashes, I am walkingto find Heaven, leaving a burned trailof vacancy and stardust. I enter another path, holding handswith wide-open curtains.In letting loose the purposeof running fields
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You hear that unfolding. Pages recreate an echo. A faint call.That sound cannot remain wrinkled, staying old – it isn’t a memory you can leave in a grave, when its casketwill be the only thing rotting. Upon your forehead,petals have fallen. They writhe like those maggots you hopeare feasting upon our bittersweet tragedy.We have screamed
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If in the presentation, I choose tohug the bark of strange trees,I’ll hope with rushes plungingfrom softened eyes that those rootslike hands, can form their gestureof prayer to a man with his years in ruin,with his gaze always looking awayfrom a rotting sun in a fatal distance. Whoever thought that sadness could melt?Whoever thought that
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I keep pondering. Looking overyour shoulders and mine,caught in a sudden danceof unified paranoia.I bring you closer to find eyesexactly like mine. I hear your sighscomparable to breezesthat send leaves spiraling.We dance in this continual twist,hearing our names floodedat our decaying feet. All we have committedin these regained hoursis a relit torch. A heart that
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If those stars can be counted,with the melting candlesbaring their relit wicks withour hearts repeatedly beatingfor no other excuse, no other reasonthat wind will only move usto each other’s arms,as we kiss, beyond our shells,beyond our warming Hell. If our eyes can be found,let us know no soundother than rhythms hearddeep in an ocean, brought
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Rush. Touch.With faint eyes,limp arms, nothing is everhalfway to being over.We have fallennext to each other,looking at our clouds,dark, but never raining. Barren stage. We are here,counting seconds, beforeanother beginning,another act to begin playingour scores, our shallow insightsinto a betterment,other than simple blights. Will we find somethingbeyond the clouds,beyond haze? A curtain is oftena third
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Some other torn placeWith scraps to the misinterpreted fields,At stages of grain for uncovered spaceWhere the smothered sunRevealed all of bleeding love.A nude back held the same streaks,The same lashesTorn towards Heaven, above –
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Keep sealing your mirrors, display to facesSo emptied of disposition towards you,While your wings face low,Giving nothing to ashes.How much can the weather renewAll the fog that deprives you of graces?From the lips that thirst,By the arms that hurt – Without the heart now stranded at the shore,Failing at the spoken euology.You keep trembling with
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FormlessFor each shredded pieceOf uncaressed flesh,To waitOn the other side of an edge,Bleeding throughEnvisioned, frosted gates,While eyesSend bewitching signalsTo ships, on their turnPast the blood. A face of reconciliaton,GrowingEmbers, on the edge of eyelids,While waves caressEach carried form,From the shore. All broken stemsKneel too heavy.All petalsFall too readily. To traceA signal, within the spaceOne form
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Pulled about the loosened veil,Everything seems to rainAround this battered templeIn the life most lived, within motion,Exiting towards the estranged ocean.The sun dressed me, its golden coatFor great abandonment from what is mostCapable to be undone, Of decadent time, glimpses to be won,In spite of everything newly saidOf a virgin tempest, where burns fever.With passion’s
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“Writing patterns and schemes in the work, is a direct result of reading them in people.” – Modern Romanticism We can define all types of poets. Though, it can be believed that the universal aspect of a poet, is not by them simply penning the work, though to write about what they have read. Of
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FallingInto empty circlesBranded with your kisses,Stained by the blood of your heart.I can reachFor a void, where you belonged,Yet, you still shower me in your excessive light,Leaving love to my arms,Caressed like a whimpering child. Leave my own heartTo the storm of your hypocrisy,That I might terminateAll the blood that flows through your halo,That I
Modern Romanticism 