Poet
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Glares of rust,As my hands sift past curtainsBlocking memories from neededIntrusion.My fault becomes evident,A quieted beliefOf some Spirit, full of Holiness,Radiant in wherever Temple was builtTo house this guiltOf sin, immortal,Of loathing, endlessOf those dripping at the endOf a stained blade. My life,Woeful,As my wifeLies crippled in blanketing fears.Why memories mustTurn fault to the glaring
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Like cradles,TeeteringWithout their silenced infants,I am in the bitterness of retirementAway from a darkness,Into a light.Like the words I craft from sinister hands,Like the faces I conjure from a weathered mind,Misery follows. She has her hands sunk in the ocean,Lifting waves.For her pale arms ride from the moonTo the limitless sands,Beneath departureOf tides that carry
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All dreamsBecome beautiful lightsWithout the sun that awakens us,Deep in our nights,Covered in our blindness. We stageDifferent acts,To attractDifferent flies,For we are the death, wilted over. Just memoriesThat bleed, for eternity.Staging nothingness,Beaming beneath a golden light,Hovering above cresting waves. We are movingWithout feet.We are tremblingIn the final burialOf our hearts, in the sand. We have
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How many tears have you cried,My dear?Falling apart with your heart in your hands,Fragile, with broken arms,Somber eyes.Can you ease the dark around us?Or, shall IMerely breathe to stake us down with a kiss? Leave all lonelinessLeft to the restOf this forgotten world.Can we not be one lightThat no longer weepsWax over our fingers,Catching teeming
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Blow me a candleThat I might spark a new daylightDeep from my heartTo the surfaced horizon.Just a false heap of a lineThat requires a heat.Kiss your markUpon my unfolded lips.I want to detect youOn this night, where the moonIs most resplendent. Please say you will leave a roseOn the bed,Where you shed more tearsThan petals.
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Kill the moment,Could you,Little lie?No fire could wake youFrom your deprivationTo thirst.You want the drink,Kissing the edge to a bottle.You yearnWithout waiting your turn.No firewater,Could drown out these tendrils of flame. You placeYour face, in the earth,Breaking smog,For you have lifted it to face the sunlight,Where warmth has lifted a smokeTo cease the sun. And
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Simplest grief,Arranged wreathFloats byOn gentle breezes.One warming sighCannot beFrom the coldest cry.Your eyesWanderWith streaming gatheredTears.Warmth,Blue kissesBreathe down my throatThe song you want me to sing. I am to kiss your face,Exquisite one.Undress your form to the windsWhen they become one.Ardor and splendor,Are unified, becoming none.Just a modest sense,Equivalent to that none. I love,I crave,I wish,I
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RespectIs the glance of distanceTo ease the side that concerns youThe most.Love is that,The distance.As I hold your hand,I flood the space between usWith waters you cannot see,Using eyes you cannot notice,Veiled behind a cloak of white. A filigree of vintage covering,So like snowThat rains in from an overcastField,From above.For I want to kissEvery draining
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Let yourself be named, “hope”,For youHave found the twine,The ropeThat saw me hangingBy a gentle sway,After a greater tug of myselfInto this well. Run your tears like waxDown the braided piece of string,Thin as your eyelashes,Long as your armsTo where I reside.I must come up. Like dismal Autumn leaves,You leak the contents of your eyesDown
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This was delayed, because a new cover had to be made. It will be released, very soon.
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Harvest itFrom wet lips,Sunken deepIn the ever-grey tempest.You are disguised by distrust,Yet, I can tell you do this to allure. Just a romantic elementTo describe this infatuationFor a heavenly pairOf glistening redBrought close,By your radiant stare. Undress yourself,Nestle yourselfIn the iris-covered quiltsThat I might sinkInto your silk. You are beautifulWhen you step back,Against the wallWith
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The soldier crosses gapsOf bleeding wounds.Torn fleshAre numbered to the extremitiesFrom where crimson flows.His faceUpon the yellow horizon,The warm descensionOf a flame that is differentThan from those who aim for death,By that of the torch. Still, no brighter warmthThan the heartOf one soldier without the disguise,When he can mourn for the safety of his wife.A
Modern Romanticism 