Poetry of Love
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Atop of Heaven, there is a woman, there is a beautyWhose triumphant call is a horn of flame.There is the sun,To which I grasp with all my knowingOf what she behold for me, in this time of need.My pain is a growing monster,And her touch will heal. Above to where I see long tresses trail
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All of my painGoes into this kill,This one kiss upon the terrible formThat sought me to be stillThat sought me out,To be heavy with the weight of loss,For you were there,Until you were not. Your absence might appear kind,It is unlike the place I will findYourself, among the dust of a ruined city.Might it be
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Why do I feel pain,When I am meant to feel love,When I am meant to feel strong?It is like the sun in my chest,Creating my weakness,Creating my heart,Creating the start,To a long road, ahead. Why don’t I feel strong,And all I feel is pain?It is a weakness, a sickness, a knowingTo know what isn’t meant
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Raise a smile,Why don’t thee,And show me, so that I may see,Your happiness and tranquility.Though, a character as yours,One that fully endures,My entertaining of a bit of difference,A side to me, deserving restraint,Deserving compliance with sense. I do not deserve to see you any different,Than to have the character of one woman,Whose attitude and posture
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Upon the day when you arrive,Adorned in something fragrant,Dressed in something treasured,It could be only love between, the threads of a garment,The threads of a worn heart, of a torn heart,That I’ve promised to mend,So much alike the garments, I’d do away with,So much alike the pain, I’d do away with. Upon the day when
Modern Romanticism 