Poetic
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“All love is not delicate, ever on its own. On its own, it is waiting to create. To imagine the universe as infinite, is to believe in love the same. All beauty is delicate to its creator. All beauty is shaped by hands so unseen, while through our submission, we allow them to mold us.”
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He speaks directly to her ear, “You are still so small, my child.” She withdraws to peer upwards to his gaze, with quivering lips and weary stare, to then commit a moment in a burning. She kisses him. Upon the lips, smooth with each waxen mouth that fires up a fever to the downing daytime.
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It is somewhat often that a man will find himself to be nestled near to silence, as if his arms were wrapped about the form of a woman. Her comfort is brought into that solace, that silence, because she seemingly has nothing to fear. What of Anton? He raises himself, to form steps with the
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I will live,Though, how can I breathe? How can I start a fire,A flameIn this heart of mine,Without the glance that brought me life? How can I state any moment of happiness,In the most genuine of words,Without what is needed,To keep me down? What finger will be placedUpon my blistered lips? What pair of eyes
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I picture thee, open and empty,With palms facing your knees,And eyes upon the surest sign,Of life with broken wings. Kisses are gentle when they are spokenAs well as simply given. Kisses are harsh when they bite,And retract with a mouthful of flesh. I am sure to love you,As much as you’ll allow the loveTo flood
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I turn around to repeat,In careless repetition,All vows and emotions, upon a plate of fate,You deny what was offered,From a dying God,From a man with all the might to his fight,His eyes were upon you,And faced the enormous creation,Of a statue in what he’d not undo,A love from all broken strings,Upon one delicate harp,Upon one
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“Your eyes, magnificent in shape; your form is a plaza of many stands, each showing ripened fruit for the occasion; and how I would hold a pair of breasts alike pears to be swallowed whole.”
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Before me, you sit with a sorry stare at a rimTo a glass made of the fibers of sand,Love is a breath in the air for our breath,As sweet as the redness in your hairAnd as bitter as the very sight of death,As the very sight of what sticks out in your mind. A face
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I long, and simply long, For scent of longest hair, and eyes of furthest stare, We are but two forms upon this Earth, With steps so shallow in the mud, And faces so tranquil, As though starving buds, with quivering temples, And blasted bodies, By the wind and sand. I am in love, and have
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Hope is a well that springs eternally the warmth of possibility. Though, for each individual possibility, there should be a guide so that further loss is not eventual, and never inevitable. A leader, that is, should reassure the sorrowful that there is greater light than such a hopeless one can ever consume, to fill whatever
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“Where loss encourages the will for survival, a human will each believe that there is more to do, more to gain, and more for the stride. Such is how life functions, in contrast to the forced contentment from death. Or, in love? How does love also evoke the stillness of gratitude?” She is the waltzer
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I have in my palm,The clay of your illuminated shell.Your beauty that remains stilled,Among the ebony shores,Clears the skies,In your nudity.I am in love with only the failure,That has become my eternal addiction.Oh, when love is my eternity.When love is my mercy. I loathe the external benefit,The mute loathing that showsA frail breathing, lifted by
Modern Romanticism 