Romanticism
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I was a father to her life,And even a mother to her strife,I acted my part,So that she’ll resideAmong fertile valleys and sunlit glades.I was in the mood to touch,Where spots could be soothed,Where wounds could be mended,Though, eyes were only pulled closed. Among death, and among sadness,I was the most fertile, to send tears
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Place me at the direction,Like a child with two teeth to spare,Of the place where a home resides,On its own,In the great wilderness,The infinite wilderness,Of my limitless grief. I wish to be out,Yet, I cannot stay out,Because, my mind is where hours are lost,In the thoughts.You were beautiful in a form,With eyes that shone above,
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Why had it endedWithout faultGiven upon the other?I am so much in the wonderment,So much in the Hellish endurance,Of pain and growing pain.What is so hard to describe,Is that you will love me as another friend,Is that you will drop tears for somethingThat faded as a distant sunset,That faded alike the tears which have driedUpon
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Myself was broken in one,My heart is broken into smallest pieces,At this very moment.And I would love to kissThe lips of tragedy.It is not as urgent,As to kiss the lips of quietness,To calm this groaning heart. Your face of mine,With kisses tender,Kisses quiet,Kisses soothing.It was a matter of factTo my mind,That I’d be able to
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Outside my reachWas a love,Was a heart of a woman,Was the kiss of a life,It would not happen.It would not happen. And I am filled with the grief,Of a thousand eternities,With this pain to my heart.This poet’s hand of mine,Is disallowed to swipe a tear,He swipes syllables,And writes them dear,Writes them with fear. I have
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Stuck upon the stare,I am.With swollen grief, so aware,To the current AutumnAnd its fountains of frost.The mist pushes my heart closed,And I feel all surrounding pain.All surrounding, alike the air I breathe,As it is the same, within. Love was my currency,And my feast.Love was my heart,And its attack upon my heart.Now it flows like the
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A bled wound upon the pageSeeks to rewrite virginity,In the named events to this day.I am something of a man,Loyal to loyalty.You were something of a woman,Loyal to realism’s mind.And I foresaw a place embeddedIn the white garb of a veil,In nothing uncertain for what I decidedWould only be my dream. My heart now bleeds,Flesh
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Before me, you sit with a sorry stare at a rimTo a glass made of the fibers of sand,Love is a breath in the air for our breath,As sweet as the redness in your hairAnd as bitter as the very sight of death,As the very sight of what sticks out in your mind. A face
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You had taken the stage by heart,With only a portrait in arms.And a face full of gold,That you’d be admired for the priests.Though, their craving for silver,Is their serpentine fetish. A stage where there is rotten flesh.Music drenched in agony,And a memory washed in blood.You flashed a breast before the crowd,And made a wicked mark,With
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The interest in youth,Is all too gullibleFor my understanding.For you have crossed a line where hurt lays dormant,And have faced the tears of a man,A man who has shielded your unguarded heart. There is so much sympathy withdrawn to the shadows,That it would feast on your torn soul.Your torn form, and the graces unfathomable,Of arms
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Tipped into thy divine mouth,Like Heaven draining through an hourglass,Of thy heavenly form, with no crudenessAt all, to the beauty of serpents. I am in love with a sin,To make love with the surge of emotion,To make love with a woman of my nightmare,Of all pain, and her studious gaze,Here is me, to count the
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Of eye and iris, combined,I combed the earth, to then find those pair,Dipped in honeydew and nectar alike,Stark against pallid skin and reddened cheeks,As thy making were by God’s artisans. Your eyes, and the cries you emit,By the graces of angels,By the disgrace of my fallen empire,By the dismay to my withered pride,You are still
Modern Romanticism 