Sad Poetry
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An empty home is a tragedyTo what has revealed itself, upon a day in destiny.We are two petals over curves,And over our memories,Where salvation lies buried, awaiting,The new snows to descend, upon the beautiful other.The little face you show, revealing perplexity.The tears you rain from two eyes, crystalline, in form.Every piece of dread that was…
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I knew to love,What was trusted deeplyTo the nuptial part of our romance,Before an altar with primrose and tulip,And the sight of Christ upon our faces. And, it was yours he shared the most attention,As you wept, among the repeated sighs,To the warm wind of this summer height.A little droplet of morning dew nested beneath…
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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…
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My dear, you’ve kept building what ought to be thrownFrom 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 seizeLove, at every opportunity,And replace it with the…
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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 variousMoments in sickness.…
Modern Romanticism 