Romance Poetry
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Love is a wing, and I have been caressedBy it, by the hip that I hold,By the lips, bold in red. By the few lashes that extend far from eyesThat are tinted in bluish contrast. Beloved, so loved you are, beneath me,As I am above, I see you,Your face and your eyes, and your breastCurves
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My dear, you’ve kept building what ought to be thrownFrom the highest precipice,To the furthest ocean,And rent apart by waves acting as hands.Hands from God, hands from Satan,We are beloveds, always in arms, though I am angered.I am angered by a world,By a world that knows to seizeLove, at every opportunity,And replace it with the
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In love with an aroma,That comes from arms that dance in the sun.In love with cheeks,That sprout alike the moon, when full.In love with strands of hair,That rain upon shoulders and neck.Though, I am in love with lips,That bloom the boldest color. I am in love with lips,Breathing with the exhaustion in repeated sighs,Designed by
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Play for me,Dear, struggling woman,Though, our patterns be great,They seem to turn upon their own command.I found love upon your own throne,Upon your own grace,Upon your own face.Tears struggle mad to free themselves,From daily confinement.Bruised and scorned by the sun,Patterns grow immense, in all levels of sadness.I see futures born from all variousMoments in sickness.
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Blanket and quilt,Heart shape and guilt,Collide upon the other,In merry do-overs.Blessed by thee,Your tranquil beauty.All so personal to describe,My heart, in its redness,And in bluest tears,I bellow out such oldest rhymes. We have faced the world over,In truest terror.You were upon the strength, I knew to uncover youFrom, to see the area beneath yourself,And to
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Fall upon me, now,And un-shield your eyes,That sparkle from the dew of a newest morning,A cry for aid, when you came astray,Feeling pain as you did upon the birthOf our love. Your mind is a curse for your heart,Your heart is a feast for my mind.Your flesh is the place where I partThe breasts, to
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The apocalyptic shadow,Of my eminent devastation.My salvation,Could not have come sooner,By the noose,To the box. To the soil, and attempt to rejoin,What I had lost.Was she lifted?Was she granted,The heart of God, of any God, of any faith,Rather than my own, for I failed? Indeed, I failed, as was my wont.Accustomed to failure,And now, she
Modern Romanticism 