Modern Romanticism

The aspect of romance, divided between the heartening and the thoughtful.

Poem – “Had we Known to Love?” – Romance – 12/10/2019

December 10, 2019

Should I have known to slow the funeral
Upon arriving to it?
When seeing your form, in a state of no tomorrow,
I breathed a sigh that revealed the cold,
And gave my grief my hat to hold.

Your form is as lifeless as the winter, with no shadow to show.
Because, the sun has bled its last into the final petal.
Life has won me over, by a selfish expression
Of miserable gratitude.
And beauty has saw itself fit to leave me behind.

I confuse, at times, love with beauty.
And say to myself,
“I am not beautiful,”
When I should say,
“I am no longer loved.”

I reveal myself,
My wounds,
As easily as I despise myself.
My face, it aches,
My heart, it breaks.


Poem – “Solace, in your Eyes” – Romance – 12/10/2019

December 10, 2019

When Hell cannot be quelled
Of its shaping design, to forge a fire in my mind,
There are the eyes, I always follow
To where they point,
Upon my bosom, where a bruised heart, burns black.
A little woman with her hair in tangles,
And suffering as a stain upon only her skin,
Because, she has tasted flame,
The flame of deprivation, to her core,
The flame that whips the amorous words,
“I desire more!”

My little woman
With beauty so much in detail,
There is, yet, a single place I put my gaze,
That are the eyes of yours, with your glance over curved
And bared
I desire no more, upon when I am singed by pain
Than to see that stare, among tangles in your hair.
Little woman of much beauty,
Have we given all to else, the world and its thirst?
Place us both at the next moment in our wonders.

We are beautiful,
As we are meant to be.
And nestled beside ourselves,
In the Heaven of our belief.

With few promises to keep,
As desires unfolded, for ourselves to see.
We will continue to believe,
As I continue to witness,
Those two eyes demanding kisses,
Staring upon my heart, to make it once more
Flutter with a start.

Poem – “A Disheveled Promise” – Romance – 12/10/2019

December 10, 2019

Like the pauper, sideways upon the roadways.
Like the pauper’s eyes, with no stare that enters backwards
To the trailing mind, like the road before him.
Like the pauper’s mind, imagined to be Hellish
In whatever dream he’s conjured to pursue,
Because the sun seems too hot, and unreachable,
As the gold he’s longed to breathe,
It is us.

A nothingness, in what we hold,
To save,
To breathe,
To live within it,
And to savor it.
Is the love that we behold, before ourselves,
Still unreachable,
In our mire, in our filth?

We are still standing sideways, like the pauper
Before the roadways.
With our mouth, we weep, instead of with our eyes.
We speak words of solemn attitude,
And attempt to drown them in our hands,
Upon when we shield our lips.
Death stands before us, offering a rose
To you, the mightiest of us two.

Our promise has become alike the pauper,
Without his mind, ever fixated
Upon something real,
Because he faces the sun, in the summer,
As easily as he does, for the winter.
As unreachable as the sun is,
So is our love,
Because, our hunger is still uneven as our lips.

Prose – “A Grand Seduction” – Romance – 12/9/2019

December 9, 2019

I blew a sigh in the direction I knew a kiss would follow from my own mouth, decorated in the red from another pair of lips. Her grace and simple smile. It was a memory I grew for, to a future I was terrified would sprout to multiple, curious directions, because what is certain?

I was in this same room, as I stand within it, now. I notice the keeping of a certain bed, with its headboard and sheets. I notice how a certain detail, being those sheets, move with a flapping motion, in response to a wind that intrudes in, from an open window. What I also have witnessed, upon my mind in the heat of memories, is the spot to where I see what was once many nights in passion.

Still an area entrenched, as though a hole to be dug out from a bed of soil, made as a impression in the worn mattress.

Now the keepers are tending to it, like an artifact from history. They know not of the history that encases itself upon the shelves, in my mind. Would they ever be intrigued, such maids with their brooms and other sweepers? I am eager to know, but not so eager to jump into the seduction of one such maid, for the torment would wring me, not entice me.

Is love ever-so simple as the poets claim? It is, because it is life that becomes the villain for love.

We will forever name God to be non-existent when we are alive, as victims in love, and never Him, a being of no life.

I see such a memory before myself, when I have noticed that the curtain to the open window has been blown slightly further, than usual. I have envisioned my beauty as she used to be, before me, in the central part of this room. During when seduction was a passion to her person, she waves loose clothing about herself, as though she guided the wind to make it move. Like a dancer of flamenco, women with their loose garbs, as well, guiding them to draw faces of no more than smiles, upon observers to what a scene they create; and, she did the same, with her eyes upon me in the corner of her vision, and then upon the dress in her hands.

A train to trail another path before itself. She, too, smiled with all the dashes that could make up such resplendent beauty. I was in love with a woman of elegance, by whatever that word represents.

I denied nothing in the mood offered, when her right hand touched my chin, and spoke the words aloud, “There is nothing so wonderful as your presence, before me, in this room of rooms, while we shall share in our grand seduction.”

I took her in arms, held her close, and brought down great kisses, like a barrage of arrows upon her sweet skin. I kissed and tasted, and tasted and kissed, all over herself, until she spilled out adorable laughter. It was music, simply music, and I could not deign myself to let her go.

Something ever-more powerful, took her from me.


When I sink into these memories, to the nights of passion, I wondered if I had penetrated too deeply to strike the heart, and compose a brutal song upon the strings to that organ. Would a church and its nunnery hear it, the music of solemness and angst? I detest myself.

I feel I have defamed my own self.

Winter now buries its presence upon my two shoulders, and I recede back into my ambitions, alike she never existed.

Poem – “Dew upon the Frailest Face” – Romance – 12/9/2019

December 9, 2019

I knew to love,
What was trusted deeply
To the nuptial part of our romance,
Before an altar with primrose and tulip,
And the sight of Christ upon our faces.

And, it was yours he shared the most attention,
As you wept, among the repeated sighs,
To the warm wind of this summer height.
A little droplet of morning dew nested beneath your eye,
The left one.

It created children,
And brought down a rain of orphans to your white feet,
Bared to the warm winds.
I cast love in a direction, I knew to be
The kiss to bring you ecstasy.

Little lady
With a vivacious spirit,
You have grown to only weep,
At the sight of me,
And I have yet to know of what emotion, comes the tear’s origin.

Shall I kiss, again?
Upon the forehead, perhaps,
Or the lips, again?
Upon each cheek, perhaps,
So that I may know?

Tears were once what we knew to be tragedy,
And tiredness.

Failure was a sting to our hearts, made-up by that ecstasy
And everything beauteous.

Poem – “Your Form like the Crawling Sea” – Romance – 12/9/2019

December 9, 2019

A mind made with shelves, adorned in the books
That read the past with much awareness,
And a heart that recedes with the tide
Of a bloody sea.

No fault could ever welcome itself
Into your open arms,
For you possess a form,
That outdoes even the sea with its many currents,
And many curves,
From cresting waves.

I am in love with a woman I have envisioned
To be my partner in life.
Her form, though, is a sight of great admiration,
With beauty to each mark,
And with a belly that exhales the breath to sing,
Resonating as the startled lark.
With tresses that rain to shoulders and neck,
And then to a pair of snowy legs,
That seem to stand, as the statue does,
Upon its base.

A form, and also a face,
Beauty is the notion, I have come to know,
By all your radiance, upon skin so immaculate in hue,
And desirous, as something I never knew.
For you have eyes that wander the extent of that form,
For seduction’s sake.
My eyes, as well, see the world over,
But never the sea,
Beautiful, in everywhere I have seen,
And marvelous, in white skin that bleeds the sheen.

Poem – “The Message Behind your Lips” – Romance – 12/8/2019

December 8, 2019

The distilled honey
From a thousand flowers
That blossomed nectar,
To meet the sun,
And shone there,
High above,
In the early noontide of this spring day.

I came away
To see thee,
And soon set upon a path
In a forest of green,
Lost and unaware
To my motions,
For they were as your own.

Stumbling through these narrow pathways
Beneath feet covered in stone,
I groped for a vine,
And only saw what I held before myself,
Being the hair that I always held,
Torn from a head,
Being yours.

I came away
To see thee, in a sea of loneliness,
And blew smoke from my lungs,
When love held its own above,
In a radiant Heaven.
Beauty caused us both to flinch,
Though, the hair still was clenched in fingers, heavy.

I clenched what I drew back,
What were the longest tresses
I knew to be,
A deeper tragedy.
A solemn hour upon my lap,
A beautiful heart in your bosom,
Quaking from all the shaking.

We were lovers for perhaps a minute,
Until we were dead for a moment.

You, a lady of the night,
And me,
Just a man with a burden to offer
A world that seems light as a burned feather.

Poem – “When the Evening Met Her Lips” – Romance – 12/8/2019

December 8, 2019

Downed by displeasure
To a dying day.
And then, downed by your hands,
To roaring sheets,
To see the evening in your eyes,
And then, the sunset upon your lips.
For you were the one
To kiss the day to vanish away.

My beauty, with hair so vivid in its angles,
And with body stark in its curves,
Alike those to the Earth,
And when you turn, the Earth turns,
When you twist, the Earth rotates
Upon an axis to make it winter,
When each flake of snow will descend
To meet your warm cheeks.

Delicate one,
Frail one,
With lightness to every step
That you make, upon this evening’s wake,
I’ll kiss those cheeks, for they appear
Somber enough for me to hear
Little remnants of sadness, quaking in your heart,
And how could that be?

How could,
That you would
Chew up still,
Misery’s fill?

I had thought
To have bought
Away the madness from your eyes,
So no longer do we dwell, in our lies.

Make it evening, forever,
So that we may see the shadows, cast over
Our debt, our currency to love,
Our pleasures, to our necessities from above.

Poem – “As you were Enamored in my Eyes” – Romance – 12/7/2019

December 7, 2019

I filled my eyes with the droplets of joy
To believe in you,
During when I had believed in you,
The delicate iris for my eye.
With each petal I had then plucked
To the greatest farewell,
And the shortest goodbye.

Your beauty was the sun,
And the moon, combined.
Resplendent, as a radiant star,
And how I could hold you, when you were under my eyes,
So that tears would fall to meet your mouth,
As my kisses fell to meet your mouth.
And my arms seem to be still around you.

You delicate thing,
You beautiful thing,
You porcelain thing.
How I’ll yearn to cradle your head, in the future.
How I’ll wish to kiss your tired eyes, in the future.
And it won’t happen,
Because it won’t come.

So my tears only fall to meet a shadow
That stands still at my feet.

Prose – “A Little Romance before a Mirror” – Romance – 12/6/2019

December 6, 2019

Just as I could glance no more upon her aching form, in where I had put my hands, my head turned sideways. To see what I should not have seen, or what could not be seen, in that scene of pain. I was with hands to her throat, while my famous and sharpest dagger, cut through flesh to open it, wide again, after whatever other lover had come her way.

A harlot, and a little wanderer, through streets when lamps will dance in a flame. And I had killed her! A devilish doing for myself, and I do not count this among my achievements. She had been so frail, the tiniest thing to see through, and I next chose to see the mirror, to her reflection.

A ghostly and ghastly image! An apparition that cut through me, as I did to her! A vile and twisted shadow to a woman, once alive with passion and enticement! It gnarls my form, and twists it free of the blood I claim to be my life, in such a way to make me weak at the knees.

And, I would bow to her, were she to flinch, at this moment, when there is nothing to her, besides a decrepit and loose form.

I could kneel, were she to twitch this delicacy called a woman’s body. I’d then ask for her hand, to marry her, out of a simple desire to be reprieved from this terror before me, in the reflection. For it would not at all be something for seriousness, not for the genuineness of one marriage in bliss; no, only to be forgiven.

I had not wanted what I see, and am stuck upon. An image for my punishment, and I cannot question it. I cannot question what is meant for me. The devil is in this bedroom, a harlot on the bed, now dead, and my own body is in the heat of a torment, so raw.

Love had never drawn itself into myself, for my own protection, so well, as now. I cradle a few strands above my brow, and say I shouldn’t be to blame, in sudden denial. In sudden denial, I attempt to move from the room.

And I do! I do move, and quickly advance to the door, to open it.

I see the hallway, and what do I do besides fall?

My heart. It has eclipsed, itself.

And I am as dead as the harlot I had slain.