Poet
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I am not about to stareFor too long.Your long hairHang like the dropping tearsI have sworn were the place of my bathing.Your faceIs the stolen aspect of an angelDescended to my arms.Did God erase you,That He might see you for me? I hold a kingdomTo your rose,A dream that ignites the restOf the future’s caress.Your
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Just a wellTo dump the contentsOf her eyes.Deep blue as Neptune’s children,AwakenedAs puling infants,Close to no mother,Close to no otherBut the cruel hands of a Father,Of God’s sheltering darkness.For sheCan swear He created Hell. Water the cries,To water them, more.Water the lilies, upon the current to the brook,Draped as curtainsOver the stepping stone.She has lost
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Count scars,Limitless as stars.Count truthWhole enough to be broken,As bread is consumed,Chewed,Digested,Not like the lieSo easily swallowed.A broken truthWas once, in preparation,A wholeness. A broken form,BeatenUntil bloody,Is always the truth, reborn,Though neverIn the eyes of who broke it. Would ChristBreak the truth,As he broke bread,As he gave wine?Broken bread, as beaten flesh,Drunken wine, as streaming
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“I cannot help but to love what I have found. A heart. Hers. It would remain isolated, without a branded kiss. I leech my own, through the vessels that remain upon my discovery. I am the sailor who throws himself overboard. I cannot love myself, not for a moment. I sacrifice myself, to see her
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Hold on, dear,To the waters,To the densityOf your eyes in the universe.Stars leak from your void,For you have lost much,As stars wander from your gaze,For you believe you are drowning. Hold on, my love,The rain is never-ending,As we must hold on. Believe in this,My hands tremble,Though they hold, tightly. Believe I can do it,Love,As my
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How much earthIs needed to suppress the light?The corpse, still awareUntil resurrection makes it declareThat the fog could be brighter,That the dark could be whiterWith the bleeding shell of mercy. He says to the road, ahead,Among its inhabitants,“We are stoned, as one.”He breathes a momentThat lasts,After his rising. The destructionOf constructionLoses always the dimensionFor a
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Stilled,Without a sign to the breathThat would raise youTo feel the morning’s showerAgainst your cheeks,To receive the gleamThat can display lifeFor your acrylic eyes. I could paint youIn the way you are,Blossomed from a rose in a grave,Written out as a song of sleep,As to you, I could not save,Though death whispered its lullaby. MarksCreasing
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No one told a manTo dust off his skin, in the corner.No one scolded the manWhose eyes blazed a stream to the future.No one could hold a manWho would cry in that cornerOver the faint photograph of a faceThat would never grow faint in his mind. He had told himselfThat his words are the loneliness.He
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Start fadingBeneath the centered sunlightOn your captivated expression.The world has not taught you to stayWith arms to your side.You bleedThough you never lose what is spilled,Except for your tears. You catch the fallen droplets,Like lost autumn leaves,Like one forgotten summerThat enjoyed its daylight,Before grief had spawned from the womb,Buried in the most antique of tombs.
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Blinded, as I amBy the streams of your brightest lightOf a Heaven I knowYour screams cannot be.It is a pain I forgetBefore the face of a gracing love.Though, a painI will not deplete myself of,In recollection of arms I knew as a childWrapped around me forThe protection I had adored. I will not obey darkness,I
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Fallen arms Upon the blue texture to a shoreline, Recedes me Straight to her embrace. I am for the coil Without raising myself from the soil, Without breathing the ocean to a boil, Without misusing my steps in the toil To be beside her In the earth, In the sand, In the washed up land
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You turnThe blue from the storm,Leaving me to grapple the wavesBy my hands,Upon this desolate landWhere the ripples break me. You churnThe waters beneath my crutches.I rotate these handlebars, slowly,To fathom your deepest apologyThat came riding from your mouth,When the last breath was taken. Like a church that never met winter,Like a lake that never
Modern Romanticism 