#poets
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“Writing patterns and schemes in the work, is a direct result of reading them in people.” – Modern Romanticism We can define all types of poets. Though, it can be believed that the universal aspect of a poet, is not by them simply penning the work, though to write about what they have read. Of
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Crawling amongTeeming sadness,A forest has bent its limbsTo the shape of your misery.Folding handsAcross your bleeding heart,A bosom as wideAs the ocean,With no smile you show. Why not awake the sun?I can come through,Kneel to you,Arrange your eyes with a gleam,Tend to your fallen heart,Handing smilesTo your stolen happiness,As loveCan be your banquet. Do not,As
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Fragile,MournfulOf the snow that takes shapeOf a man’s crumpled hand,With edgesThat carry him down. Weakened,OvertakenOf the breaking mind,Wallowing in sustenanceToo heavy to hold,Though he walks. BleedingSunrise, into the wastesOf burned fields,Sickened moors,Orchards that loose more applesThan ever he did of sin. Will waterQuenched the starved lips,Reminiscent of a kissNever allowed? Will the moonShow its true
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Poem #1 “A Collection of Fine Dust” SettleIn the stillness,Oh, memories of an afternoonWith frail longing to danceIn the debris of her absence,Tasted again. Like loose rocksFlown from the distant hurricane,The teeming tornados,With velvet to guide my handsAcross to her frozen waist,Among this, heated haste. Like tossed tearsRunning from the storm in her mind,The twisted
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Hold your hoursClose to sunrise,The warmth washes gentlyOn a splendid tomorrow.Deep red to curtains,Flowers grown in your hair,Time forgot usOn the road to being unaware. SmoothnessTo cheeks,TeardropsTo eyes.Let fall your garments,One by one,With the decay of secondsTo the unguarded earth. A kiss,And then we breakInto the final surge.A plunge,And undress ourselvesOf scars,Of useless stains,Of life,Of
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I am no longerThe man, who held you.Merely the fableOf another twist in the plot,Held with no moreWires to be straightened,For our connectionDied,On the spot. A cold stoneBuried, in a heart,Formed by words to collapseThe teeming alignmentOf mountains,Where a fragile echoCould pass the whiteInto children’s cries,Into innocence’sOpen mouth. Hold me open,Watch me, as I am
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Born apart,Given the startOn the longest journeyTowards endless arms.And to breastsBeing white with the milk,To the slightest grayOn the stilled cheeks of a raven,Where feathers bare oldness,Of white in the warmth,Onto black within coldness. Still the grainAt the bottom of us.A caress will notSoften the screams of laughter.Keep us fallingAnd leaking rainFrom eyes made to
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HopingFor a lost wishTo make it backTo the silenced crevice,Towards the wind-tornReverie,Where much else was droppedAs tears,From hollowed outVisions. ViewingTomorrowAs the past,Carved in a sealed heart,BrokenTo leak upon tapestriesWhere forests are prettiedBy the thoughtOf something universal,Everything natural. WalkingUpon pathways,Staring backTo the bleeding beyond,To a sun,Decorated with roses. LosingTime’s stray second,While waitingWith heavy hours,Hanging as the
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Keep swimmingIn this breathYou have tried to loosen pastThe debris upon the shore,Upon the spacesBeneath your blackened eyes. You weepWith cruelty to your sleep.Every feverish dreamSinks you deepThrough memories, to keep. This wallowingYou perform, in your banquetUpon sculpturesOf destroyers,Leaves you open,Swallows you, broken. I kneelNear to your decaying form,While petals surroundOf the sameLacking taste. Can
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WadeFor what is believedTo find meaning in streamsPushed down on pallid cheeks,UnleashedOut of contemplative staresTo the moorsWhere mists will gleam a starAs the last,Before night decays. Erosion,Sleep deprivationsFrom the cradling arms of one,Made into threads,Bare with love.She smiled from a weeping face,Losing symmetry in each tear,Wasting the fateful yearsToiling in her fears. WatchingFrom beneath,Where the
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Love’s unused bandageFor the leaking woundUpon protected flesh,To awake to thundering sadnessOf a one, weeping at a bedside,Staining handsWith the rain of guilt,Dismembered from their mind. Love shows a path,As life leaves a trailTowards bitter ends,Among ecstatic smiles. We weep the tearsFor those behind, to findThe sufferings we tookTo taste, as wine. WalkingWith love buried,
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While the trees still stand,As the wind entersTo quiver the leaves.While Winter dies on a slopeWhere the faintest glimpse of warmthPeers through the final frost,As a babe through its mother’s shawl. While love holds a candleWithin hands, that do trembleAs leaves in the stain of Autumn.While summer heatsFor the lust of lovers, entering deepThrough waters,
Modern Romanticism 