Modern Romanticism

The aspect of romance, divided between the heartening and the thoughtful.

Poem – “Draped Lids over Blue Skies” – Romance – 11/5/2019

November 5, 2019

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 window

To 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 petals,
Droplets of rain, from a nighttime’s shower,

Yet, though they were Springtime showers,
Of those I could eagerly call myself,
To feel,
And now,
They are the droplets of a cold November.
Skies as bleak as the evening this occurred,
When you puled, not alike yourself,
Though, wept alike me, alike the droplets of November.

My beauty, with your icy form.
Please become warm, wherever you are embraced.


Poem – “The Agitated, Forlorn Lover” – Romance – 11/5/2019

November 5, 2019

My dear, you’ve kept building what ought to be thrown
From the highest precipice,
To the furthest ocean,
And rent apart by waves acting as hands.
Hands from God, hands from Satan,
We are beloveds, always in arms, though I am angered.
I am angered by a world,
By a world that knows to seize
Love, at every opportunity,
And replace it with the utility,
Of industry.
Please deny me your place among the stones,
Among the rocks, by the sea,
For I am without longing to plea,
Longing to see,
Without the tears,
All that has made us timeless in each embrace.

Those waves, those currents, those shores,
Cannot be what they are, when you are vaster.

Poem – “A Simple Pattern in Love” – Romance – 11/4/2019

November 4, 2019

Play for me,
Dear, struggling woman,

Though, our patterns be great,
They seem to turn upon their own command.
I found love upon your own throne,
Upon your own grace,
Upon your own face.
Tears struggle mad to free themselves,
From daily confinement.
Bruised and scorned by the sun,
Patterns grow immense, in all levels of sadness.
I see futures born from all various
Moments in sickness.

Lips are grown, bulbous and ripe,
Upon your face in the ivory.
Scents as old as the ice that crawls
Upon your lingered sight.

Lips as red as the blood beneath your veins,
Bold for my taste, if I could smooth the vast many
Wrinkles, that adorn
Your cherished cheeks.

I struggle madly,
To pinpoint the heartache’s origin,
The love and its flame,
Dances uncontrollably.
And shows to us, a pattern of destruction,
For what it has touched,
In where it has stained,
Above all, we are pained,
As we flourish in our own blood,
And we cover ourselves in frozen love.