Sad Poems
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There is a waterfall beneath your eye,As though the eye pressed further into your head,To bring forth the liquid beneath it.I have seen you weep, a couple of times,And become drunk more-so on my own pain, for I caused your tearsTo flow more-like the lava from a mountain,Than ever a flow of water from a
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I turn over leaves,Among the winds of Autumn,And breathe in the dust upon your chestAfter you died.Then, after you cried,I knew it was only the rain that fell,Upon your cracked and weary cheeks,Made from marble,And that stone heart is mine,Among its surface, smoothed by the same wind. I will kiss stone lips,And bury my heart
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Beauty recedes with the push of timeAgainst its frail and vulnerable form.Alike when you called the breath of my sigh, to rub itselfAgainst your worn cheeks,Against where teardrops leakThemselves, downwards to your polished, ruby lips. We are both frail, with few things to remember,So why do you desire to see all else, corroded by blackness?A
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Pleasures sometimes, and only sometimes,Stifle themselves,Upon our walks through boarded passageways and times alone,When we may see the shores with its naked sands,Fused like longing upon longing.What will the seas become, without the sands beneath?As scarlet as your lips,We are lone with only our shadowsAmong depravity.We dwell, in faraway eyes, over those oceans, and their
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Had that pillow caressed your feeble headMore than ever my hand could?In such comfort that death could provideTo your ever-more feeble bodyWith its trembling motions, alike the quivering leaves during Autumn,I see your chest raise itself, to a peak,And fall down,You may be ill,Though, you are in comfort. And, I am jealous of death,“To have
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I filled my eyes with the droplets of joyTo believe in you,During when I had believed in you,The delicate iris for my eye.With each petal I had then pluckedTo the greatest farewell,And the shortest goodbye. Your beauty was the sun,And the moon, combined.Resplendent, as a radiant star,And how I could hold you, when you were
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Why had love grownPast the thorn that we thought was higherThan the top of your crowned head? You are the woman with feeling abound,And the bitterness that surroundsMy mouth,Was from your timeworn kiss,From smallest lipsDripping with the yellowest poison,Displaying the fever between us. A fever, a warmth,Alike the sun, alike honey.Alike the sweetness from what
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Death has made you majesty,While I weep aloud melodies.I once saw the weeping sky, and now,I weep strewn tears to your closed lids.I once brought my hand out an open windowTo feel the droplets,And now,That sky has closed, along with yours.A sky has been buried, and shut,Your eyes, and above. There is dew along the
Modern Romanticism 