Romanticism
-
I fell upon, the highest romance,As an angel, centered upon his flight,Downwards, I descendedTo see, where I caught, my sight.Love was a plaything, once to me.Love is now a treasure, befitted to seeFor its ornaments, upon nuptial evenings,And songs sung aloud, in credible musings. Downwards, I flew, destined to showWhat I know, to be, the
-
When the beloved takes her breath,When the beloved oversees deathAnd its wilted form,It is me, she’s placed her eyes upon,For one more caress on the roadTowards distant riversWhere tears fall at even greater length.And among the house of screams,A thousand-and-one of them,There is her gentle placement,Of one thin finger,Against my lips. I have been in
-
What was love without the blame, again?A lash upon my own backFrom me, my own slave-master.I defeat myself,Blame myself,Writhe in the guilt of disappointment.And I see my tears fallingWithout a say to where they land. What was love without the coil,The constriction?The restriction,From life with sharp wings? What was love in all its devouringOf my
-
Where beauty plays with its ashes,And sees romance in every word.Spoken by delicate and worthless eyes,Being the eyes of mine,I see, above me,Two swipes of scarlet brimming with a word. And, as that word falls onto my face,I begin to notice how it writhes,Soon when it touches my beaming forehead,Alike a drop of rain, from
-
Here are glimpses for the world’s most benevolent,And you have a face that would make the Earth,Lean forward to kiss its heavenly smile. Allow ocean to meet ocean,And sorrow to die away,In all we know of each other. Your stare is but two visions apart,And I know not which,To put my own glance. Hand me
-
Of all romance, and of all aromas,Romantic and aromatic,Footsteps fall onto the floor with grace,And allow the moon to drop that single tear,Upon her ever-worn and smoothed face,Alike the rocks that receive the wind. Love is a calling,To her feeble form.Though, she is but a stone,With the fragrant moss upon her gray skin,Still youthful, with
-
White petals, makes paths atop your pale flesh,Unseen, alike wherever your eyes trail.Unheard were the words from your parted mouth,And the love we’ve made ourselvesTo care for, in a place of simplicity.A mourning,Upon one morning,A few droplets were against your hair,And had stayed there,For me to count their number,And for me to pull them away,Alike
-
I buried thee in a grave,For my failure to simply save,The conditions that plague your feeble form,The additions of all terrible inconvenience,A body crippled to beEvery page of our shared tragedy.Love is now at its knees,Calling me down to see,What is only a belief. I cannot truly accept,Your loss from myself,Here I kneel as though
-
I have wept two single tears,To where our paths shall divide.One path leadsTo a place of flame, of summer with sweetest kiss.The other leads,To a place of coldness, of winter with misery’s tempest. Our faces look upon where I have shownOur world to end itself,By cuts upon its own wrist,For I know,And truly accept,That these
-
I run around where I have seen,All where she has mustered up herself.Two little petals upon isolated cheeks,Two dynasties upon a feared woman,And I would kiss them away,Were she to never draw herself away. Two legs,Like two pillars of porcelain.Two eyes,Like embedded rocks of blue.And a haze of green is all I’ve seen,In forests dressed
-
Great ripped veil,Above thy blessed nose,And the music around,The sturdy form painted by my brush.You are lonely without a kiss,Dear little one.With fame and might, pleasure and spite,Beauty was all you knew.And the pain was all you grew,Beneath arms,Cradled like infants, in their hollow selves,All dead, and worn,Like ice upon a rash,Beauty is one terrible
-
Why bow to the blame?Why bend a knee to the shame,That will cover my woes with greater stains? For tears to mark a path,Across my heavier cheeks,Must be why,I offered a goodbye,Must be why,I ate those tears as sustenance. For tears to make a journey,Across my tired body,Must be simply why,I was never the man,To
Modern Romanticism 