Romanticism
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Upon blue irises,Folded over with lids like bird feathers,A glass of red within reach of a porcelain hand,I stare. Beauty has welcomed itself, upon this occasion,Your grace, and your face,Two eyes like twin moons upon my own,Shifting away in incredible shyness.Lovely, you are,Upon this evening of evenings.And highlighted you are,Near to a candle that stains
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The world around meShifts into an illusion,When she stares at me with blank eyes,And speaksWith an ever-more blank voice.She has been the ungrateful one,For each of my worlds,Love and survival. To make her live,Was to allow her to die in my heart. A pain,And a tragedy.One world,Devoted to eternity.It was a climb, to the finish-line,A
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The worst has passedWith the snow to a bleak yesterday.And I see her tresses rain from a frail head,To that path behind me,To a path, where I see,All my cruelest enemies,Little voices of laughter, from spiteful children,People who beg, and people who spit,People who destroy what worlds they ever had. Why would they want this?
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With one wicked remarkBy your feathered tongue,A lightness in your voice,To soothe me,Down into unwarranted pain.And the sting comes upon my arms,And my legs,And my neck,Is enough to be drunk. I would call this pleasure,Were the levels not so different,Between yourself and me.And were our faces not so different,Of your own and my own.I am
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My love,My beauty,My once-held power.Upon your hair, there are ornaments of ice,While there is pain upon my mind.There are great statues in the wildernessFor us both to see.Their splendor has been an easy achievement,To fill the void, of an artist,Of one forgotten creator. I once created, what has collapsed.What has been called “beautiful”,Is only now
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Upon thy broken and velvet back,There is a tiny frailness,A little bird without wings,It sits, while I sit, and I paint,To see what I’ve always envisioned,A woman with eyes like onyx stonesWithin a lake of sapphire,And a face of pure porcelain,Dotted with freckles like leaves in another lakeOf immaculate white milk. But, the bird atop
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She would bow,And I’ll raise her up.She cannot disavowThe words we said before an altar,To go on towards another place,Another place I cannot conquer.What of her heart? What of the heartThat knows how to beat, only whenThe birth of beauty starts,During whenHer cheeks flare upon my touch to her skin?What of her heart,What of the
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Now we speak the tuneAs it draws close to attentive ears,Among all our waning years,Failure upon our cold and scarred shoulders,The tune of how a clock ticksEach passing, miserable momentTo a barren winter. I have been in love for a while,Until I have drawn so close to emptiness.Misery is always a comfortAnd a reminder,A little
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Romantic and justUs, ourselves, in arms,With tulips that surround,Primrose and all alike,Sweetness is aboundUpon our nostrils, and they cleanse!They were meant to turn awayOur Hellish nightmares,Our bleakness,Into the most pleasant of dreams. I am in love with the greatest of women,The feeblest of women,Who has ice upon her eyelids,And greater solidity in her heart.I have
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Come closer,Frail one, to my door,Where you’ve heard these screams before.Where my limbs had once crashedTo the floor,And had then risenTo meet your throat,With a solid grip to drain life away. Pain and shame is now an empire,Among all the redness to your lips.You’ve tasted blood,Have you not?Your dream for lonelinessHas become a sheer reality.
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Beauty recedesAs the ocean and its fluidsUpon stark shores,Masking us in its amassing plenty.I still hold your hand,Despite my eyes upon this dark ocean. Each recession,Each regression,Is like swallowing another tear.And each wave against my feet,Is like one drop upon my knees,During when I am curled up against defeat. Love should hold hands with love,Beauty
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A foolish criminal,For I murdered a love,We had shared with wine and blood,With sweetness and bitterness,Among the beauty and the ugliness,With sugar and sand. Love should be our Thanksgiving,A memory we should treasure,Though, I had murdered it, and left a bird to rot. I would thank myself,For being alive,But, I am nothing but a criminal,Who
Modern Romanticism 