Modern Romanticism

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

Poem – “Slow Down My Sight” – Romance

August 17, 2019
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Slow down, this pitiful tear,
That has made, its merry mark, on my cheek,
I find it to be, too earnest,
And thwarting, from the sight, of someone, so vivid.
You have been beautiful, to this day,
A woman, as the moon, finally sees darkness.
The darkness, of a life
Turning, to death.

Go wishfully, to the naked forest,
And grow roses, in the bleakest parts, of that place.
Make me a blanket, of twigs, and deepest roots,
Full of berries, alike your eyes, like gems.

I am full of remorse, to the previous day,
I am a man, with many sides, to him.
And only a singular face, to ever kiss.

Show this tear, to perhaps a priest.
Let him shower it, with the contents
From God’s realm.

Fail me once more, why don’t you?
Curl upon me, with your body of silk.
You have eyes
Like the deepest, of green.
You have longing
Like the disease, that streams
From the nudity, of me;
Like my mind, that never seems, to heal.

Poem – “The Art of an Angel” – Romance/Descriptive

August 17, 2019
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How do I, describe the one,
Who has, lifted me, from deprivation?
How do I, describe the woman,
So beautiful, as to, unearth woes, from a, past life?

To make me see, all that, has come to be,
And the failures, from faiths, I transgressed, too horridly,
All mathematics, and all stars,
Point to an answer, I’ve long been, desiring to witness.
All of beauty’s image, stands before me,
In the caressing, of angel wings, and a lucid smile.

There, I see a face, engraved with stones, of purple, and red,
And a naked form, of ivory –
There are, to each leg, the comparison
To pillars, of ice, or pillars, of marble.
I adore her shape, in her making, that trembles,
Under the warmth, of a dashing sun!

“Face me,” as I say it, to face me,
You are now loved, once more,
By a man, who made a woman, as a statue,
An admiration, for a life, so lonely.
I am in awe, as I’ve remained, in awe.
Movement? Is there movement, in a lifeless shape?

There must, be ebony,
A stain, on my fractured heart.
It is there, and I’ve felt it.
It has covered, and here, I know it,
Before the denial, I’ve kept.

Poem – “When Love Rains Down Against my Temples” – 8/17/2019

August 17, 2019
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I could see the necessity in wishing to know,
The love I’ve come to commit to my own atrocity.
My beauty, you have exquisiteness in every breath,
And a mark upon your shoulder has been to count,
Each subtle sigh under morning light,
In before I come to share my place near your death.

Love at my left hand, and my hope in the right.
I am a man of many angles,
And many divides to count for too many.
There has been desertion staining our hearts,
And now I find myself wanting.
“For what?” I ask, and then I comprehend it:

I am in awe for the woman who hasn’t rested,
Has been afield in the work of too many men,
Too many droplets of salt, have played a part on your stress,
Come to me, dear woman, when you’ll feel yourself
Wanting to fall, and create an imprint
Of yourself in the soil.

A devil had made this world,
And there is indeed purpose among it.
But, to find myself more wanting,
For the angelic tears that make a journey,
Across your withered cheeks,
Makes me find more meaning.

Flash Story – “A Woman Praised by Beauty and Steel” – Romance

August 16, 2019
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A woman’s heart is to me, the cherished stone. I walk from where I sat, to her face, and bury only myself in her tears. They come out from dark eyes as sweet to taste, for she is happy!

Happiness! So alien was the word, whenever I’d writhe in a torment back in my home. I’d spent the summer nights, in the heat, while a heart beat for the torment of an addiction. A substance, or so it was named, and I blew kisses in the direction of that pain, because I knew it was enhanced by love.

She bares her beauty resplendently. This woman of mine bares herself with a heart held outward, and I make myself famous in her touch. I feel the entire world look upon us, with so much envy. They can never know love. No; not them; certainly not the world I know to be dipped in selfishness and a desire for the self.

Our hands embrace; indeed, we have embraced. We have kissed, and we have embraced. We will love; yes, we will love. We will kiss, again, and we will find the moon to be radiant and the sun to be hot.

Above her brow is a strand of hair that I blow away from sight. I see an eyebrow that I, as well, offer a kiss. And I kiss it, and kiss it evenly in distance from her twinkling eye. So much love is in my heart, and my pain has been extinguished from its dancing and ephemeral flame. It was my life, that pain, and I have waved it a farewell.

My beauty, let us dance under stars and under the awing faces. We are the world made perfect. We are the moment made without distance. We are the ones for the other. We are beloved, and musical, and enchanted.

Poem – “I’ll Begin to Raise Thee” – Romance

August 15, 2019
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Up from deprivation, I’ll begin, to raise thee,
To my contemplation, I have seen, to pull thee,
By my regret, I have not been, to free thee,
From a slumber, from a pain, from a madness
That should only, be known, to me.
Why should thou feel, when I am only, to suffer?
Such confuses me,
Whenever I see thee,
Born with tears, pasted against, thy worn cheeks,
And so many tunes, that come as weeps.

Why much sorrow, when the world stands, seemingly true?
Denial is but a virtue, so that pain, no longer surrounds.
We are, in vain, nested, in pain,
Not by darker moments,
But by willingness, to express it.

Why much tears, enough to flood plains, with their wetness?
I find no meaning, in their existence.
I fail to see, thy complexion,
As anything, but tied to water,
And the great ocean, that surrounds, thy lips.

I have offered kisses, to quell thy mourning,
Of what, such a future, of disaster, may bring down
Upon thy quivering and aching form.

Let us, make us, miserable no longer,
What will pleasure, come as,
As birds, where we fly, with wings broken, like deadened gulls,
That have, met a storm, to bring them down.

Let us weep no longer,
No more, the feeling, of sorrow, of remembrance, to guilt,
We are living, in our dreams, in our oceans
When we, should be, living in arms.

Poem – “My Dear, We will come to be” – Romance

August 10, 2019
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Fancy yourself dressed,
In the fanciest gown,
Decked with the rubies of a life once loved,
In all your aromatic kisses,
And eyes that glow in the haze of a summer’s night.
Beauty! Now, dance for me.

Find me in the garden,
With thy roses plucked,
And thy breasts revealed,
I find your loneliness a thwarting thing,
I find no pleasure,
From the previous day.

Give me imagery, dear one.
Give me wine, dear one.
Bend at my feet, and I’ll see into thine eyes,
Made like pearls, embedded in thy skull.
Oh, love. We have been made holy,
Upon God’s temple.

I desire no one else, but thy face upon mine,
No one else, but your kisses I smear.
You have a face, colored by ivory,
And tears that I drink, drained from cheeks
That seem to quiver in the dark.
My dear, have we come to be?

Find me in the garden,
Where the grass caresses my toes,
For I will see thee married,
To me, for me, upon me.

Poem – “The Weight upon my Palms” – Romance

July 29, 2019
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You surround yourself in an ebony shield,
An ebony garb, made by your loathing.
It feels to me like a weight upon my palms,
For I am the one who holds it close,
Like a man without the groping tension
Of one perpetual shame.

Disease and wine swim well with the other,
How famous we are, when in love,
But never so graceful as when we are drowning
In a current of pain and denial.

Have we love to behold?
Have we the moment captured?
Oh, beauty. Among you, there are flowers to rain
The petals and their thorns, on the soil
At my feet.

There’s much that is missing,
From your stagnant heart, that does not beat.
There’s much that is needed,
Beneath this moon that is full of color
Belonging to glaciers from the North,
And sorrow from a mother.

Find our way to love, we will do,
Of daylight and nighttime, as both become
The celestial landscape, upon plains of ivory, now.
Love, with your eyes under lashes,
And a pair of nostrils that breathe the fragrance
Of death and its eternal playground.
I shall come to love, and love, for eternity.

Poem – “Make Me Aromatic” – Romance

July 29, 2019
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With desire, feed me wine,
Among pain, make yourself as mine
Beneath sheets that fade away thy purest form,
As all angels weep above in their enclosure.

For I have destined myself,
To wed myself,
With yourself, a queen of a night,
A desire and a might.

You have felt the sin,
To which we ran the waters
Over our palms,
And over the soils.
When thou did,
Thou filled baskets, with ripest apples,
And filled thy mouth, with words of praise.
Make this kindest moment last.

The moment when we dance,
Before an altar so lit with wonder,
An altar adorned with petals,
I see thee, a face of finest beauty.

I see lips as strips of scarlet,
And cheeks with rose attached,
And eyes that beam out the wishful note,
“Never to leave, never to depart,”
As you rightfully say.

And when I see thy graceful form,
Kept in my palm,
I find nothing else to
Create a qualm.

Face me, dear thing,
You have beauty roaring out,
To the furthest shores,
So mighty that you are, needing to see,
How much I love thee,
And all of thee.
We are now united, with faces to breathe.

Words of Wisdom – “The Beauty made Objective” – 7/21/2019

July 21, 2019
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“What to notice about love is that it does have its set of symptoms. The signs of one ‘in love’ are all too noticeable, through the loving, by recognition of beauty. The clammy hands, the pounding heart, and a rush of adrenaline; and we tend to confuse these symptoms with fear. What we should also notice is what lays directly opposite from the emotion of love, and that is, death. Death is full of fear. Is love full of fear, or excitement? It should be the latter, for we’d know that the psychopath would feel excitement for death’s sight and sounds. The old composers knew well, same with the sculptors and artists, alike, that when beauty is lifted, it is ‘beyond reach’; as this is to say that such beauty has been called away by angels; as this is to say that those old composers who made everything classical, by the sound of the opera, were there to recreate such sounds of angels. The sight of the Renaissance painting was there to recreate such ‘symptoms of love’ by the chills, the sweating, the pounding heart; and never the mere shock, and total shock, and purified shock, that comes at an instant, much like death.”

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