Poetry Magazine
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Facing stars,Running with warsThat never seem to die.Among all our childish wishes,Faces always cry.We never smileWhen we hoard the books,When we can allure shadowsThat never bondWithout breakingIn the light we despise. Letting the storm die,Letting the dark collideWith something other than light.It is the mind that withersIn winterWhen no spawn of rose,Nor face of infantCan
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I blacken, with such sounds,The motions of my feeble arms,The blue awakening of my skies,To drown in your cloudsThe harrowing blue curves of your tears. You count the petalsSpring unleashesTo the scented winds,Breathing sweetTouches of longing. You hold out a handThat I may kiss.You take a standWhere I may catch you,Should you fall. Your eyes,
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Trace your ground,Smother that soundOf years that belong to yesterday.There is too much at stakeFor you to break. I wed, through the sonnet,Your fabled face,In its truest grace.I speak syllables that matter mostTo the epitome of what is close. The gates surroundUs,Where we walk beyond the shore.We get undressedTo the rain, that stains our forehead.
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Drop your roses,Drop your feet,Drop your eyesDown to where each thing falls.Drop those wallsThat have stood youJust a mite so tall Your prideIs the musing of a thousand moreGenerations to come.As I see it,As I comprehend it,It is weak as glass.Let yourself go, to where you may collide. Find yourself,Shine yourselfIn the sun’s warmthOf exercise,
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Let the sea swallow up My bleeding self. Yet, when the sirens do come to elapse My painful sickness, I will sit here To count of the cuts Lining my wrists, beneath the gleam Of burning moonlight. Try as we might To lick clean the wounds, As vanity proves its maneuver. Your lips, A searing
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For as you bleed Asymmetry To the fragile moon’s face, I wish to trace What tears you have shorn From a flesh that has been bled and born Within the womb of love. I dream of you, Dear one, In my nights of no sleep, As I imagine the day with stars. You are in
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The state, The waiting game Of your eyes upon the lane, Where our roads will cross, Where our fields shall know loss. As I see thee, I want to say That nothing in the world matters. Your beauty Is an image of my defeat. My arms are long As they hang. My tears wet roses
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My beauty With eyes the curves to the Earth, Encompassing what makes the land and seas, Give yourself to me, And fret no more. You have lips to be kissed, As soft as my heart once could not be Until a specific attraction To where I place my mouth. For it is not to the
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If they have killed you, Due unto a disease, I will kill them. I will send them running to the Earth And escape through the ashes, Down to the corridors of Hell. I will send them chasing demons For merry love-making. Those demons Are of their own kind. The same faces, The same traces Of
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What of you Do they need to despise Of your holiness? Are we doomed to run Like some being of land, who is not at sea, Doomed to sail, for eternity? Love would have awoken the Kingdom, Destined to be planted Like everything else did not matter To us. Like dust in my hands, Like
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Take my commands, For they are nothing To you, at the bedside Where your toes glisten from the water, And your breasts gleam from the oils, While your eyes let loose the gazes Down upon your hands. Take nothing from me. But, I will take you Into myself, With all your flesh, and all your
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You bleed the deep Oceans to cross, Oceans to travel, Waves to ride. I weave Triumph, before your eyes. I was the spectacle for you to witness Within your cries. Do not weep, But say a vow. Say what you want To the stillness, somehow Where we break against the tide, Against ourselves. Love lays
Modern Romanticism 