#poets
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“I cannot help but to love what I have found. A heart. Hers. It would remain isolated, without a branded kiss. I leech my own, through the vessels that remain upon my discovery. I am the sailor who throws himself overboard. I cannot love myself, not for a moment. I sacrifice myself, to see her…
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When will you walkWithout the hard strokeOf your aching feet?You impatientWoman, with too many blocksTo wields in arms, meant toCarry something far more soft.You stumbleOn iron.You dream of empiresYou cannot even kiss. Why do you implore overDisaster?Why do you wish for meTo step aside,That you might constructAnother Hell? I love all waking momentsOf your eyesAgainst…
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I curl around A form, that steps around The rocks, that shelter Her beginning to be hidden. Love leaves soft trails On the path so unspoken Beneath her sighing lips. I want to say That the world was without you, Though, you came Without pain. Could you kiss? Could you melt Like candles that have…
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She sawWith open gaze, upon her clothes battered in the risingSun of a new morn,The night of her dressingUp to seeThe funeral of a man she welcomed to beHer husband, to be a widow. Love, she did.And weep, she did, too.With eyes full of wetness,And limbs full of the tremblingLike leaves in Autumn. It was…
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The cracks within me, smile,Burning tragedy away for a while.Love would have been gentleWith your hands upon my fragile form.I am a broken man,With a bottle of anger in his hand,As the cracks upon the bottleLaugh and laugh. Love is dutiful,Love is beautiful,When there are those to hold it in clearness.Though, the bottle shows spots,And…
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Love holds a soul,That which I cannot hold.Because, the tear that was descending my cheekIs falling from my chin, to meet my feet. I would kiss the stains at my toes,And hurl Hell upon new foes.Their words had cut us deep, in our treatment of sleep.Our sleep, our loving denial, and its gaze so sweet.…
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I gave from withinThe merriment of a certain whim,Gifted from a heart, made of solidified embers.Of the sparks that dance sideways with the twisting breezes,I was the angel without a voice, who gave unto the distantMy heart, with itself in drenched pale hues. She, a woman with deepening hurts,Deepening sorrows.I could not let her see…
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Hell is a patient sort,Willing to wait for itself to coverWhat we will name to be human. What is it to be merciful?To have said this, is to meanThat there are deeper things, than Hell. For I believe,That even Hell can be burned from our life.Its fires are meager. Hell is still a patient sort,Willing…
Modern Romanticism 