#poets
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Funnel the hope,Bend your naked selfAround the sensation in your veins,And make of a ropeWith sinew and rotting kisses. Place your feetBack to a memory in the past.Hold hands withStraw-laden wastebaskets,For a portion of your heartHas been trashed. Among delicacyWith your smile,The falsehood of the immaculateAnd somber state of the moon,Counting your tearsLeft off with
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DoomsdayAnd hollow smokeEntrenches youBeneathIn your velvet curtainOf unguarded sleep. Waking and weepingFor the first funeral to commence,For their sounds have left youBottomless and open. New musicSending your flesh sweepingDust into a fine garbAnd wilted cloak. Walking and runningAtop where you rest,With snow to keep you buriedIn depression’s amorous arms. WintersdayIs a silence to captivate you,Surround
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Lift your shape,Breathe thy sorrowsTo represent the moon’s discolorOf white, fleeting veinsThat once possessed the shameOf life’s great surgeThrough watery channels. As roses come to meet you,While faces come to greet you,You are the kindlingBlazing with the truest grace,Capturing reflections in puddles,Washing bare skinIn the deep oceans. Life-like sadnessWith breath to each fallOf your aching
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RoamingWith vanityAnd emptiness.SingingA sorrowful tuneFrom a heart,That never did start. Holding handsWith the thorn-coveredTwigs from burned brush,Fading amongDistant twilight,Walking intoA bedroom of old scenery. AwakeningWithout a sound, for a sighWas never aroundTo dust the grain from my eyelids,Bleeding for the eternity of love,Seeing the ceilingAs I ache to know. Why is deathHeld for me,Where is
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Waltz throughThe open door,For the pain is still thereTo be adored.Sleep peacefullyAmong the dew-drenched petals,Wasted soil for bedsOf churned earth for the dead. I have kept you,Needlessly protectedWith eyes that still see shadowsDown every corner,Across all lanes.While my tears rainAs the skies part themselves,Will you still sing? Of broken stems,Aging leaves,Weakness throughout every boughOf the
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What manHas dared to bend his time,Freely, for the things he does wrongFrom all else, he could belong? The witnessBrought forth, with no happiness,No bandages to bringRepair to the fading trenchOf veinsIn this swollen heart. The love, tried to the guiltOf brokennessIn the commandment of the crippled,Among all thoseBorn to weep, die to wilt. Faces
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Envy only the trophiesThe world has sputtered forth,Bleeding majestic statusFor your feet to walk. Kind crueltyBares a pair of shimmering shoulders,Wanting with your fingers pressedTo the bone of your vacant image. To the discovered fossil,Of porcelain against your arrayOf fog upon this doomsday,The painting has become the decay. Walking uponBlood-stained stained-glass,With a lucid smile,Warped by
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Upon heaped-up gardensDressed of you in finest embroidery,Comes the first stepInto the dance between two star-lights,Living love. Walk now,Up to the altar for your arrangement,For no second man shall claim you,Even upon the dayWhen your heart stops. Here isA ticket to your reclamation,While beauty is braidedIn every tress raining from your head,In the fog of
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How is itOf death,Of such a brightWinter’s delight,Weighted across the debrisOf scattered tresses,That anything could possibly matter? Of fallen leavesTo the descension of snowsFrom arid heavens,What builds of this rejection?What eruptsOut of this insurrection? Of love called to a door,Of feet carried to be imploredThat the day falls more triumphantlyThan the night,While stars leave their
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Bandage these wrists,For the blood is his to tell.The fable that runsIn idle smoothness, of salient releaseTo the deep-red wine of an hourglass,With roses, many for their petals,Crushed as hearts,In their due time. Wandering in the voyageOf pages, thickened with the chordOf a broken spine,Vanished strength.Walking on stepping stones,Concealed in the fractured imageOf a one
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Here, to recallThe waters, through the reflectionOf my faceless, unkind self.Counting the days of rain,When a sunshine came throughThe weeping skiesTo raise the sunken seeds. Here, to remissIn desperate recollectionOf all I could not, or did notCare to keep contained. Here, to kissThe fallen dropletsBrought down on her cheeks,Walking through a stare,Her puddlesFrom ivory eyelids,Hell-born
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As IStand, without a smileAbove the graveWhere I called my fellowBeing the bird of torture.The death of a love,Of all wasted years I spentSending sighsTo the ocean’s width. While IFade, among the pain,Wallow, among the grain,Wade, through the stain,Swallow, the future with shame,There is tunnel vision,With no vision for the tunnel. Crafting my book,The same
Modern Romanticism 