#poetrycommunity
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Pain is there,Beyond the door.I see blood rushing inTo my feet,And I know, very well so,That her defeat is near. Like two seasons faded from their togetherness,I was the winter you did abhor,While you were the summer, where love climbed ashore,To see the rocks as mere pebbles,And the moss that covered them,Only the comfort of
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Rise up,And take awayThis unholy painFrom the woman I once loved,She needn’t suffer this muchIn this winter of winters. Her face, once an aura of bliss,Her form, once taken by me, beneath sheets of white.And blankets made of the softest velvet,Quilts made of skin. A mattress made of us,And sweat pours over like the rain,
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Your strange aurasEmit a glow I’ve not seenWith these rotting eyes, nor touchedWith ever-more rotting fingers. What a horror, in meager contours,Drawn around your idle form.An outline that masks your fragilityWhenever you’ll wake up. I see,With eyes revealed for a grave,The listless shape of your countenanceExpressing the bliss that comes with the feeling of death.For
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Thy eyes turn towards places, where scars do not fade.They are but shells to a beating heart,Discarded, like the crab to its own shelter,But, remembered. Blankness, is to your soul, without a need to write your tale,Like the chirping of birds in the rising sun,Like the coming music of when you start sobbing.Beauty is but
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Upon blue irises,Folded over with lids like bird feathers,A glass of red within reach of a porcelain hand,I stare. Beauty has welcomed itself, upon this occasion,Your grace, and your face,Two eyes like twin moons upon my own,Shifting away in incredible shyness.Lovely, you are,Upon this evening of evenings.And highlighted you are,Near to a candle that stains
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The world around meShifts into an illusion,When she stares at me with blank eyes,And speaksWith an ever-more blank voice.She has been the ungrateful one,For each of my worlds,Love and survival. To make her live,Was to allow her to die in my heart. A pain,And a tragedy.One world,Devoted to eternity.It was a climb, to the finish-line,A
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The worst has passedWith the snow to a bleak yesterday.And I see her tresses rain from a frail head,To that path behind me,To a path, where I see,All my cruelest enemies,Little voices of laughter, from spiteful children,People who beg, and people who spit,People who destroy what worlds they ever had. Why would they want this?
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When I cannot love,When I cannot drownIn the arms of a one,Who took me aboveTo see what could not be undone. A woman,A face,Of splendor and beauty,Each small bit of fervency,Each frail part of tragedy,Is hers for the closingOf my heart.One streaming face,One anguished expression,Laced with the marks of a pair of hands,That had ripped
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With one wicked remarkBy your feathered tongue,A lightness in your voice,To soothe me,Down into unwarranted pain.And the sting comes upon my arms,And my legs,And my neck,Is enough to be drunk. I would call this pleasure,Were the levels not so different,Between yourself and me.And were our faces not so different,Of your own and my own.I am
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Upon thy broken and velvet back,There is a tiny frailness,A little bird without wings,It sits, while I sit, and I paint,To see what I’ve always envisioned,A woman with eyes like onyx stonesWithin a lake of sapphire,And a face of pure porcelain,Dotted with freckles like leaves in another lakeOf immaculate white milk. But, the bird atop
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Come closer,Frail one, to my door,Where you’ve heard these screams before.Where my limbs had once crashedTo the floor,And had then risenTo meet your throat,With a solid grip to drain life away. Pain and shame is now an empire,Among all the redness to your lips.You’ve tasted blood,Have you not?Your dream for lonelinessHas become a sheer reality.
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Within one life of prior viewing,I once could see beautyBefore myself, with all its liveliness.I once saw a woman with darkest hair and darkest eyes,I once saw herself adorned in garments of black,I once saw her in pallid skin, readied for kisses.And I see myself now, painted in a mask,Of defeat and grief. How has
Modern Romanticism 