#poets
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Drifting into the eons,Drafted as the sketchUpon the clouds,While you look upTo see the raindrops fallingFrom their hollow birthOf empty heavens. In arms,We hold the other,Believing sadness can burn itselfIn the wind,Loving still with miles between us,Shattering ourselvesIn porcelain reflections,Leaving ourselvesUpon empty highways. Onwards, with tremorTo the ends of our fingers.As if candleflame could light
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White winterDrafted on a page, written backwardsTo this season’s beginning.Were we ever the fogAround our decaying eyes?SwelledIn the season’s pushWithout much to soften for,In the current light of day. A plea,Turned into the seaOf vast forgivenessNever believed,For its smile that enters as sunriseUpon the defeated horizonHolds enough for a heart to surmise,That for where we
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You tell,You spell the cause of your woe,And I come crawlingTo ease,To please you, in pain’s dire flow.The simplicityTo bereaveWhen I wear a heartStitched on my sleeve. Calm this,And do not fuel this.These urges shall come undoneTo bleed you,To grieve youOn the wires of your heartHung from the highest cliff,Spilling downIts descent from the crown.
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Holding nowWhat little remainsOf your porcelain mouth,Of what words I did contemplateUnder the barest moon,Lifting my featuresApart from doom,Healing a heartThat never died for you. The simplest beatOf an orb of redLeaves stainsOn the floor, where walksDecrepit feet,Bleeding toes,A horror upon the shouldersOf a man in his woe. The cold iron,The rushing crimson,With veins that
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What were weUpon a timeWhen Heaven did open its gatesTo endless gustsOf our curiosity? We were sentenced to ruin,With fable, stain in heart,To the inkWith endless marksOn the empty page. This love that holds us nearWhites us out in holiest books.What disusedColors of ending tracingThat never did forfeit the blamingWe used to sample. White castles,Endless
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What, when upon a mile,I can shoulder grief in the harried storm?Pulling petalsAs butterfly wings,Washing down the ocean’s sudsWith my own blood? My twin and I, apart,As Heaven seems so dark,Holy Hell with I,Feeble, yet aliveWith symptoms of sadness in the hair,Without joy in each of everywhere. Her eyes, the deepest glimpseOf everything else I
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Call yourself downBeautiful woman with blessed crown,And bleed your pain, elsewhere.Do not shed a tearLest to heighten our fear.With bleeding palms,We crawl,We hang ourselvesFrom the colors of our salvation. With your featuresDecked in ivory cascades,The future can mourn itself, as darkWaves begin to find usOn the ocean of gray beginnings.My love,Run to your nowhere,For I
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Soft glint in the woodened reflectionBeside where a mirror collects the nerves,An awakening to a cruel resurrectionOf lifted pain, to the shuddering sigh,With a willow’s branch that waves goodbye.She sleeps in the comfort of near-death,Evasive of my never-ending tears,Her eyes that have closed, are not concealedFor to the shadows around, she is revealed. Adjusted to
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Piling higherThan any curve in the wind.Here, the sun draws radianceTo love’s holy entranceOf purity’s flower, once scatteredOf a life, once unlivedFrom one love, yet to give. As all the streams come clashingWith the fire of a momentWith beauty so dashingAmong the droplets, come splashing.Here, and only here,Wild eyes are soft among the sighsThat accompany
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Petals, drawn out of eyes,Washing on, running onFrom the place they laid upon. A mind full of symmetry,Mindful of jealousyMoving forth to shortcomings,Laid flat in the long-termOf a presidency voted in by grief, Washing ashore, eyes to seekThe stagnancy in the idle blueOf skies that never drop,With hearts that never stop. Wandering with cruel disclosureUpon
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Burrowed heart inA faceless finalityWhere heartbeats are heard,To be envied.The walking stainNow writes himself, in a cruel place. She lifts her stateTo his pleasure, put in place.Open, yet stagnant, are his wordsUttered from rotting lips,Mourned over his teeth,Wailing for blood to keep. Cruel, discarded sympathyFalling lower than empathy.An embrace to the venomOf love’s unholy reason.
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Displaced from my bedside,The moon broken in two,The listless being who belongs withinHas come crawling with pleading handsTo bandage his wounds with the smearUpon the spot where life did sicken,Burying pain in the tears.For what did quicken the heartWas the crawl for the lips, that part, Speaking for the milestone,“No bliss that, for you, would
Modern Romanticism 