Charm – “Poem of a Woman Near a River” – Romantic

Of stars, to stir through bleak dusk,
Down rivers of a trailing tear,
A woman raw in flesh, scent in musk,
Subtle sigh in mournful fear.
She would quell her beating chest,
Lay a hand below her chin,
As upon her face, a wash of white,
To echo a tune in deathly rest,
Strangled strings, that of a din,
Song of misery a strange delight.

But O, woman! How she sings,
Tears cause the river to flow,
Great ancient knell loudly rings,
Once, a dagger gleamed below,
In tapered fingers aside to belly,
Beautiful! Her eyes say much,
More than heart beating for shame,
Nothing, my heart feels no pity,
As she charms me in that clutch,
A tongue speaking grief the same.

I watch each strand of every tress,
Curl over shoulder, over pallid throat,
Tapered fingers curl over breast,
As every tear falls to devote,
In time by a frozen river,
Milky currents passing along,
Warms the aching in my heart,
For slender fingers do quiver,
And reddened lips singing a song,
For death brings us both to part.

The waking of a morning,
Speaks the joys from before,
As pale features light my grieving,
This poem of a woman’s lore,
Of a cold stone in a void,
A charm to grace my love,
Charming both beauty and grace,
Pain I thoroughly enjoyed,
There flies the raven above,
Down to rivers frozen in space.

“A Marvelous Waiting Game” – Romantic Poem

Of eye and iris, combined,
I combed the earth, to then find those pair,
Dipped in honeydew and nectar alike,
Stark against pallid skin and reddened cheeks,
As thy making were by God’s artisans.

Your eyes, and the cries you emit,
By the graces of angels,
By the disgrace of my fallen empire,
By the dismay to my withered pride,
You are still the only love.

A beauty with bleakness to tress,
And red to lips,
A beauty with eyes that fall in the idleness of waking,
A beauty with no equal, unmatched by makers of newness,
For the eyes that I behold are a waiting game.

I look upon them with a face so stern,
I look, with the entrancement,
The enticement, the amiable nature of my mind,
To be pleasant in sight of a one,
The nurtured one, the rose in the garden.

You have never been the disappointment,
And I never faulted you for any failure.

A beauty with eyes that wait, as I wait,
For a death that would make our love finally resting.

“The Dismay of thy Gleaming Back” – Poem

Upon a night, where the moon rose to stay
And look upon us with fervent fervor,
I saw behind that dress that covered thou,
A white back that gleamed beneath the silver.

A tempting look in your eye,
You had a back that gleamed beneath the silver,
With a coat of sheen that grew to bloom
In the radiance of an early afternoon.

The dress that covered thou,
Is of lace, embroidered in a streaming silk,
Each strand is weaved to perfection,
To shield a body for God.

Would you open your mouth,
To receive a tongue?
A tongue to lash your swollen cheeks?
You are marvelous when you would grieve.

You are as mighty as all beauty
When thwarted by sensuality.
It is because I am
The blessing of a simple fruit,
And the admirer of resplendence.

A beauty, that you are,
With a sheen to a back,
All white against the dress that is black,
And a face that shows rosy cheeks alack,
For thou has turned from me!

A back, a back, and a back,
Your face not ever known.

“The Harlot’s Youth” – Poem

“Your amiability is sworn,” said the puling temptress,
And I had forgotten, the meaning of death.

I pulled a message, from her hand,
And read it, forthwith,
It read so neatly, in my hand,
Words of long-etched, verse,
Bleeding, with a hue, akin, to the ink color.

“Next to nothing, that you are,
A devilish crude vessel, of a man,
Made for simple wrath, and never for sanctimony,
A man of many faces, and never a smile.”

I tossed the message, aside,
And sought, for the openness,
Of a window,
And a pair, of white steeples,
Paired, as lascivious legs,
Dropping, from a woman’s groin.

She saw, with eyes so eager,
The eagerness, withdrawn, from mine pair,
Mine pair, of blues, to her irises, of green,
We had met, like ocean, to forestry,
A message of want, to my withered hopes,
In how I knew, not what life, represented.

Here I came to war, upon her flesh,
Her, open flesh,
Pinks and purples, clashing, as one,
Sick by disdain, with drops, of lust,
A harlot’s youth, bespoke, with her grin,
A word to my eyes, drowned not, by Neptune,
But, by Bacchus,
For wine stunk, upon her cherry lips.

“You are as this world, my land, my place.
A woman as me, so forgotten, and shamed,
Held down, to lost hopes, and travails,
You are needed, elsewhere,
Kept from youth, to be among, the strays.”

And I melted upon her!

I melted, to say that the world, of her’s, was lost,
Because, I met a woman, proud and empty,
Loathing, was her tempt,
And that disdain, was her salvation.

“Upon thy Curling Hip” – Poem

I grew upon, thy curling hip,
With a lash, to a petulant visage,
And thou, drew me near,
To hear the sighs, and the fears,
And the never ending, quake,
Of thy, roaring heart.

A vein, and a dynasty,
A cruel blight, and a fantasy,
A death, and an illusion,
Was all it took, to flee,
For thou to flee, from my side,
So that thou, would find safety.

I found among, your puling face,
Two cheeks of butter, and lips of wine,
Two ears of honey, and eyes of lime.
I found also among, your gracious form,
Two hips that curled, like teakettle handles,
And two legs, like steeples of white.

I found to your face, of beauty,
The newest form, of tragedy,
When you fled, to see the world’s end,
And saw, my creation imagined.
You saw, with open eyes,
The deaths, that were many.

I made the world as grand, as thy temples, and hips,
And thy hips, had curved, just as broad, as that world.

“A Lover’s Wine and Nectar” – Poem – Romantic

Death divides, my purpose,
Love had made, it wine,
Your lilies, when worn, on crown, so high,
Drew to knew, the nectar, from, the sigh.
As when God, bent his knee,
Your loving God, had bent, his knee.
And I gave a ring, to thy finger,
So that thou, would accompany me.

You are not devilish, on my barren lands,
You, with your ivory face, and porcelain cheeks,
A heart of ruby, though wrapped, in thorns.

A quake hurls, my empathy across,
A child pules, to the breast, and its emptiness.
I gave my platter, for the servant, to witness,
A mighty feast, on thy lips, of cherry.

Your beauty, and your fossilized form,
Were many, in the hues and shades,
I still allowed, a treat to be consumed,
Of perked lips, and even raven tress.

Lovely, when thou, would accompany me,
On the serpentine roadway, to my dwelling,
For thy frailty, is next to loathing,
At the pity, and scorn, of my promise.

“Veiled by Sorrow, beneath Murk and Wave” – Poem

Beauty was left unseen, for her, to satiate,
To satiate, all that left her, in sorrow,
Beneath the might, of my murk, and wave,
A growing fire, that made, me slave.

A glow for a heart, that was slender, and raw,
I fled to the other end, of an island,
And saw with eyes, her dusty shadow,
The pain that draws, close in shallows.

I made my way, to the earth’s end,
And found a place, for her hiding,
I grew fruit, in ample condition, new and true,
Afore the mast, peeled over dark soil, to undo.

To undo her heart! She was birthed, in nothingness,
A true misery, unfolded the clasp,

For my melted mark, to sate the yearning,
For my anguished heart, to bury mourning.

My child, as you feel the agonies, leaving you,
Know the grief, that were the truest feelings, plaguing you.

“The Opened Scar” – Poem

Since I knew, to trim thy locks, from a silver head,
I grew to look, to the moon,
Oh, beauty. With thy ivory smile,
And your nestled, face in my heart,
Come to my weary mind, and lay me down.

Lay me to see, the opened sky,
Opening as the scar, on my heart,
For thou would not, ever bleed when dining,
When dining, on my open wounds,
Oh, beauty. My heart is flavorful.

My heart is, as coldness’s touch,
My mind is heated, and will not rest,
Not in the twining limbs, that which are empty,
Empty, not of cane with sugar, and not full of flesh.
Deadened by sorrow, you have become.

I am leaden, and you are poison.
Yet, a poison, that is a cure,
For I’ll drink it deep, and keep each drop close.
Death and emptiness, are alike,
Where above is a sky, and below is a scar.

Dialogue – “The Empirical Assumption over a Man’s Awareness to Romance”

Q: As for your belief in a woman’s way to make herself attractive, are you able to explain why you believe it is always necessary?

A: Attraction is like butter, when melted, not frozen, and the connection of love and devotion will make a man melt into a woman’s attractive appearance. Should a woman be hideous, objectively so, then a woman will have made herself a stone, for the man to chip away. She will have turned him into a slave, working with pickax at grueling work. Love will not be smooth in this, and a man will see his romance as he sees his own life.

Q: What does a man want from love?

A: Rest.

Q: Rest should coincide together between a man and a woman. Is this not correct?

A: It is not correct, because it is not competition that drives a man to want a woman. At least, it is not competition against her. He will not want to challenge her mind, challenge her knowledge; he will want to challenge her heart. Her heart will be more attractive than her face or form. To think of her attractive appearances as melted butter, will be a correct assumption, because an appearance should be made easy. The heart of a woman challenges a man, and he will face external challenges to win it.

Q: And why should a man not challenge her mind?

A: It is because to challenge a woman’s mind will more likely cause him to befriend her, over romancing her. Love always begins at a glance. As for friendship, between a man and a woman, will be the same as a man befriending another man. He will feel like a homosexual, should he not be a homosexual, when he chooses to challenge her mind.

Poem – “One Grisly Pale Hand” – Poetry of Loss

“She asked for sweetness, of death,
Though gave me no love, of flesh.”

Death, had wept, before me,
In, the feeble form, of lust.
She, who never prospered,
Until Sorrow, showed her up.
God, kept his words, alone,
For tears to sweep, below.

She asked for sweetness, of death,
Though gave me no love, of flesh.

Holiness, that I worshipped,
I am stricken, before death.
Torn, from my severed soul,
Oh, Lea! The sin you kept.
One Grisly, Pale Hand,
Falls over, the edge.

White tides, of Lea’s light,
Were opened, at the slight.

Smooth the letters, on parchment,
Drink the fragrant, bouquet.
Pass the soliloquy, to stone,
God’s serenity, in strife.
Here, I’ll hold, Lea’s hand,
Shrouded, by loneliness.

Oh, terrible shame, release me,
God, I beg of you, hear my plea.

When priests, reveal His truth,
I’ll cry for God, once more.
Never to forget, Lea’s stroke,
Lea’s hand, pained my soul.
Above the pages, of hymns,
A cloud hovers, in song.

I tremble, by the weathered nights,
Torn at last, by Lea’s cruel blights.

Poem – “Longing, Sent over Hills” – Poetry of Loss

“Those pained by our love,
Will yet bow low,
In the moment acquired,
By the words we share.”

The light, you let loose,
Is a tired, tempest,
Yet, the shame, keeps us near,
Below God’s lit, brazier.

The mornings, of our love,
Sing the songs, of daffodils,
As in spring’s, loving tune,
Of piercing, delight.

Oh, grief’s, holy hour,
The books, of gospels,
Those wondrous, stories,
Kept secret, by our heart.

One lit, candle,
Upon, a mahogany desk,
Is enough, for a poet,
As I, to pour out.

One light, in my want,
Is the draught, of wishes,
My light, my pierced void,
The snow, of tall mountains.

Those pained, by our love,
Will yet, bow low,
In the moment, acquired,
By the words, we share.

The Most Bled Wound

Yearnful heart, with sickness amassed,
I am the beggar, of all desires,
So that I may lift, the veil,
That shrouds, your shoulders.

I see Heaven, placed upon, your mantle,
I see Hell, swirling, in your bosom,
I see breasts, that swell, like beaten limbs,
I see, that compassion, has died.

A tear falls, from my eye, and to my foot,
Where lays, a stem, from some forsaken bough.
A sigh, is released, from my heavy chest,
To meet, with the coldest winter air.
And here is my demise, in seeing your shame,
Raving in the darkness, under your blame.

I know my heart, is cold,
It is ivory, and holds, no red,
The most bled wound, is yours,
That is a heart, squeezed of life.

I was cruel, and you remain, to see,
To see, the guilt, I harbor,
To see, the flame, of sickness,
A fever, I aim to end.

It is a fever, I aim, to make cold,
Cold in the tide, of my own blood,
When my hands, come, to know mercy.