Romantic Poetry
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What did you do?Going there, knowing wheremy body might fall,letting the rocks come loose,from mountains. I am still wishingthat you, with your infinite turnswill return. I am still hopingthat secrets are not your way.I am still glancingover these pale shouldersto see something I I had missed, like another reflection of mineI had left, in thosebottomless
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You hold candles to burn us toSpecks upon an aching shoulder.Why fall, when we knewTo give the ocean its space?One final teardrop breaks into cinders,With heat upon your form I trace.Walk back those eyesFrom afar, to bleeding arms. Do not stop sinkingEven when reaching the end of me.You were strong upon your own scenery.Never decide,
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On the journeyBack to delicate tornShreds of a deserted fieldWhere you were raisedAs a single flowerWith petals flown, emptyTo the stagnant touchOf the winds. I will soar youBeyond the last mileThe earth has to stretch for,In the sum of all mathematicalNumerical.Concealed as you areUpon the openness of stars,CyclicalWith funerals to your stare. Gravitate, as youFind
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Why light,WhySo bright?What have I burnedOf the stilled tomorrow?Her hair radiates,Her skinEscalates, the tempest,Me,And the fuses at the endsOf herWorn fingers. BeautySmiles, one of heavinessTo myAching body.Her ownEclipses what I see of light,So bright,With giants to every step,Every encroaching hourTo my feeble sight. Lead on,My womanWhose arms crawl,Whose legs drag,Though still remains beautifulTo even the
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I cannot tellWhich part of the night with starsLeads me to Heaven,Or withers me to Hell.I dream of drinks,Of chalices full of tears,Full of another’s blood.There, to the winds that carryThe scent of a funeral’s pyre,I effort myself to loathe,Never to love. Dreams can tell apart,Day from night.And I,With hollowness to every scar,Stare into the
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This was delayed, because a new cover had to be made. It will be released, very soon.
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Since May 6th, 2019, I have begun writing an almost endless stream of poetry on this blog. I have now compiled 924 poems, not including the 164 drafts to poetry I didn’t finish. Minus the 54 poems that I am having published through a local publishing house, I have 870 poems that will still need
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Beneath the wilted roses, I seem a fragrance too many. Too often left upon my bones To drink of something else sweet. Your absence has buried my heart, Left me full of the dark. You loosened me, then dropped me Like the infant upon his neck. I felt the summer come too close, For winter
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Come what will,As you, to me, the most potent pill.What will be, for my mindTruly kind?It will be you, within the greatest streams of bloodAs rolling fog.No longer will tears move their waves across my cheeks,Resulting from the sadness of absence,But, in everything from you, that delicately speaks. I see redness in everything beautifulAbout you.My
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Blanketed by romanceIn the third degreeBurns upon my molten skin.And I’ll kiss my own wounds, under the sun,As the monster I have become. She sung her praises aloudTo me, the blamed fiend. When rivers stream their run of lavaTo the bloody lakes below.When beauty mocks perplexityAs my madness against her sadness,I’ll forever receive the burning
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Sunken beneath, the tides, as you wereMy solace, the source to my wellOf tears.I threw a line for your freedom, when I saw you were drowning.I threw it, to save you from the uncertainty that kept you weeping.For each drop in the tide, was yours.Though, the well was mine. I looked back to the well,For
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Above ground,You were grand, with eyes like the emerald watersOf two distant ponds.And, you had the clearest vision, as a woman of realism.And me, a man of idealismDrew fantasies in curves, and grew obsessiveOver our love’s successiveNature to disasters. I became the savior for you,As you had winter for blankets,And I removed themFor the summer
Modern Romanticism 