Romanticism
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Here sheExposes herself,In the blandest stateFor the moon’s epiphany. Wandering shallows,Hell-born streamsIn the violet,Through the waters, collectedAt her anchoring ankles. Spot the wavesCrashing from debris,Within the bloodied sea. Beauty seizes her,Widens herTo depth’s everlasting. Wearing the crown,Concealing the frownAs the monarch of doom,Weeping throughThe midnight,In shadowed rooms. A crown of dismayTo remind her towards the
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FormlessFor each shredded pieceOf uncaressed flesh,To waitOn the other side of an edge,Bleeding throughEnvisioned, frosted gates,While eyesSend bewitching signalsTo ships, on their turnPast the blood. A face of reconciliaton,GrowingEmbers, on the edge of eyelids,While waves caressEach carried form,From the shore. All broken stemsKneel too heavy.All petalsFall too readily. To traceA signal, within the spaceOne form
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Collect me, Or, correct me, While winter freezes the season Into an autumnal summer. Petals fall with the rain, As life grows In the stain, From wilted irises Cast down Towards ever-wandering Feet.
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Arms for yourTired, whimpering complexion,And burned flesh.Await, ourselvesFor Heaven’s open lashUpon skeletal scenery. Weeping with the shooting starsA heart to cross a bleak landscape,With none for the sun, to rise. You wait,With head in this frozen lapAnd my bleeding palms. You weepWith decoration of starlight,Symptoms of the sicknessFor our wild selvesTo at last, exhaustAll particles
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Petals, drawn out of eyes,Washing on, running onFrom the place they laid upon. A mind full of symmetry,Mindful of jealousyMoving forth to shortcomings,Laid flat in the long-termOf a presidency voted in by grief, Washing ashore, eyes to seekThe stagnancy in the idle blueOf skies that never drop,With hearts that never stop. Wandering with cruel disclosureUpon
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Pulled about the loosened veil,Everything seems to rainAround this battered templeIn the life most lived, within motion,Exiting towards the estranged ocean.The sun dressed me, its golden coatFor great abandonment from what is mostCapable to be undone, Of decadent time, glimpses to be won,In spite of everything newly saidOf a virgin tempest, where burns fever.With passion’s
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Poem #1 “A Wake of Disbelief” Here, to writeOut the nameless namesOf people with forgotten faces,For nothing more coatedIn cleansing tears,In the sickness of not rememberingWhat you have become of my heartWill make me burn brighter. Wild eyesSee the nightCrawl with stains upon the walls,Of waving shadowsSpeaking “farewell” to the glimpseOf mirth and void. Laughter
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It is of no better placeTo surround yourself withDelicate nature, in the bindingOf what shall nurture,Shall cultivateThis beaming to your understandingTo your rejectionist self. Love has shown you a full vessel,While you have emptied itUpon the floorIn disarray.Love wept for you,As you merely laughedTowards the nightWhen lust shall hunger for you. Though,You weepOn your own,To
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WastefulDepartureFrom the moon’s aperture,As tears soak the gentle nightOf its entire warmth,Holding hands with a sculptureFeeling coldness, all around. Grief watches the selfOf mirrored glances in the skies,Sending criesTo the curves of the universe.Whisking scenery close,As love blew the final kissOff the furthest cliff. Somber sculptureWith the rain, of eyesThat never show true pain,As isolated
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Blankets of warmth,As baskets bring flowersAtop what has died,The heart, said to be stoppedFor the good of the world. Yet, its beat was to stayIn place of the eyesThat took to its ill-white veinsA horrid form of symmetryAs rhythms broke the countlessMiniscule reverbs of time. Its beat, of not the decayTo the surrounding imageOf still-life,
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Her heart, long and venomous was ever the sadness that chimed upon the strings. Could I? To stoop my head low to gift a kiss to her notes, would I then fade? As she, being the one who wishes to be vapor, I’d gather it in my lungs at this final leap. Pioneered for the
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Save the worldFrom simple imagery.As loss falls togetherWith loss,Some sighs were breathedAs though nettedBy the oneWho gave the last kiss. To graves, full of burialFor tears to water the gardenWhere life beginsTo churn, as a soft petalLoses its gripTo become the pillowTo smother the eyesOf a wilted corpse. Some sighs were never heard,As some windsAre
Modern Romanticism 