Romanticism
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“Fear is the solitude of a human, in their attempt to dig into themselves to find what they either loathe or can accept. Though, what person in their total solitude has accepted what they despise, be that a wound that must close?” – Modern Romanticism A person in love, feels everything. A person who feels
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I: “The Man of Realization” He collects his tears, Captures his fears In the mirror where shows his trembling Unable to cease Of the crease To his complexion, In the design To his kind. He could not love What is not to him Belonging above In the wilderness Called paradise. What a love He denies
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“No love has ever crossed the borders of time. It is love, however, to pledge life forever stood against its pain. For no two, truly in love, could ever part without then living half a life.” – Modern Romanticism Love is that emotion that from the one to the other, will see their life as
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“It is not love that is found. It is love that is fought, for the life, to remain alive. For what we find might slip, and what we hold onto is never released even if it burns our hands.” – Modern Romanticism
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Oh, devil inside, Demon inside, Makeshift goodbyes Have only sought to soothe What came crashing to me as comfort, To blow it away. What was an origin, Was a womb, For I was born a monster, in a monster’s belly. Her eyes stare the world to sadness, Her form is toxic in its structure. Grown
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She sawWith open gaze, upon her clothes battered in the risingSun of a new morn,The night of her dressingUp to seeThe funeral of a man she welcomed to beHer husband, to be a widow. Love, she did.And weep, she did, too.With eyes full of wetness,And limbs full of the tremblingLike leaves in Autumn. It was
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It is at times that I feelThat feeling has left me.It is at that time when I thinkMy sanity is leaving me. When love burstsA heart bursts.When such happens, feeling is gone,And a heart is hardened with the blood. Feeling only ever numbsWhen the light has left us,When the warmth has left us,Like in the
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Memories are there for the mind to soak itself, in waters so murky or translucent, that feelings will continue to haunt and create sensations for the body to feel. Alessio is feeling upon this day the pain of hardness. Though, it is in a meditative state. For he is sitting with his eyes buried in
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Swallow upThe tears that have made this well riseFrom the cracks in my soul. My love has fallen.She has fallenTo somewhere I cannot see,To a bleeding sea,And now lies in a sceneOf outspread limbsUpon a bloody shore. Love flows a mile and a half across,This tale of loss.Across a sea of treacheryAnd the sinew and
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Was it emotionThat compelled you to betray?The sight of meMust be the eclipse,The two hands that made their wayOver to your crying eyes,And blinded your vision. Who was the seeing manIn this apocalyptic romance?For I was blinded, too,By our coldness, in the tears we both rainedTo our kneesThat we hugged close to heart,As the snow
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How beautifulOne such as me, can describeEach detail, with astonished eyes. Beauty is but a weakness, a place of clayThat requires the water, for sculpture.It is nothing, without the hands atop it,And so, I go to mold. I craft legs to appear as water-bent pillarsTo hold upPoseidon’s very palace, should he have one,Or a cottage,
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Who bequeathed the roseAbove your brow?Where each petal runs rampant, to fallTo meet the lips that callMy name, through the frosted walls.What love turned itselfUpon an old and delicate leaf? When beauty wakes up, and nestles besideThe stirring loneliness, of a man in a hollow form,And he lays next to a shadow.Merely a quilt that
Modern Romanticism 