Modern Romanticism

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

Words of Wisdom – “A Woman’s Submission” – 8/14/2019

August 14, 2019
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“There is no greater power than the will to release.

To differ the necessity from the convenience is the direct difference between life and death. It is the difference between the simplicity and the complexity. In life, we dwell over death, over failure. In failure, we have failed, and we have nothing else, for we are dead.

The beauty in submission is to reject all external measures of ‘diverse wealth’, because that introduces death to life. Diversity, that is, is the death. The dwelling; the constant question; and then, the confusion, makes the one without simplicity, enough to draw upon the whereabouts of darkness, into life.

In death, beauty has been buried. Recognition rots, and we soon see a person’s skeleton as any other skeleton, for it was covered in flesh when the person was alive.

We had recognized the eyes, and now as a skeleton, there are no eyes.

We had recognized the lips, and now as a skeleton, there are no lips.

Submission comes naturally to a woman, when she will reject the multiple complexities of a world that offers her much.

To a man’s eyes, the only thing he desires for a woman is to see her dressed in simplicity. As if she were in the bedroom, bared in flesh, and not overdrawn in garments so much to clothe her naked form.

And there is nothing worse in a world than to tease truth.

To be half-clothed, turns truth towards uncertainty.

To be half-clothed, makes honesty only half-way released. It makes the orgasm only half-way expended, and the love only half-way given. One should not ‘slightly agree’ or ‘neither agree nor disagree’ as it would ask for in a survey, but only either say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. That is the honesty.

Honesty is never partially given, and should be known for its answer in the immediate moment.

For a deceived world, people will continually ‘work to discover their truth’.

They will unearth that ‘buried beauty’ and disturb graves.

Metaphorically speaking, they will do this.

They will unearth history, rather than leaving the past to rot. And why are the people who enjoy ‘discovering their truth’ more prone to committing suicide? It’s for the reason of what depression does to the human. Depression is, as a definition, a focus on the past.

Honesty is immediate and offered by Nature upon birth.

And soon, one will carry that truth until they die.

For submission, honesty and simplicity are very much important aspects to what ‘weakness’ stands for; and that is, to be vulnerable when one should never hold a statement back.

One is always vulnerable when conveying truth.

In tears, or in rage, that is when a person releases.”

Poem – “Cling upon Me” – Romance

August 12, 2019
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Cling upon me,
For your immediate comfort.
You have wept with a shivering form,
And eyes that obey all contention.
A face that needs no bliss, as mine
Or your own, for the coming deprivation.

Disease me, your wounds of many fields.
Kiss me, O woman of much gathered,
Suffer not, when the world comes tumbling
Upon our bosoms, so wide and heavy.
We are but deformed infants,
Birthed without care.

When we scream, who will hear us?
When we strike, who will we hit?
When we bleed, who catches such drops?
When we feel, who feels us?

We are so much the crime, the fear for a world,
That turns inside out, to see itself.
We are the parasites for them,
As we care for them.

Oh, beauty.
You have oceans too deep for this world,
And eyes that would strangle its own veins.
Deny me all, so that I may see me maddened,
Make me quiver as you do,
So that I may break your fall.

Poem – “The Flesh that now Guards Me” – Romance

August 7, 2019
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When upon the time in a distant romance,
When love once guarded her form,
When a frame had guarded a painting,
When my arms had guarded truth,
I knew for once in my life,
That my home is not this home;
It is the space in her heart,
And upon a face, where quivers an aching smile,
I would die to know her, again,
And make beauty remember me for the while.

Death has shaped her space,
A black heart has now formed tendrils,

Corruption has made its presence,
Am I still in love, or have I made death?
When modesty once placed itself about her,
As the love I made to guard her,
It was always a remembrance,
It was always a field of achievement,
It held a texture alike to those cheeks,
The ones I kissed adoringly.

My beauty, make we weep,
Beneath the moon of the evening melting
Of its silver coloring, in where I repeat,
“Make we weep! Beloved, make me weep.”

I breathe dust now over your shoulders,
And find merriment only among petals,
Where your tresses caught the air.

Flesh now guards my skeleton, and I’ve grown old,
Like the robes loose about the monk,
Like the hair loose about a woman,
Like the tears loose about the eyes,
Like the serpent coiling about the lie.

Love, with a breast I cup in one hand,
And your face in the other,
Would you rise if I kissed the mouth,
That said we weren’t worth the long road?

Poem – “As I Drown within Thee” – Romance

August 5, 2019
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Petals have fallen, over a naked leaf,
The soil has been where I found thee laying,

Frozen and dead, with a mark upon thy forehead,
The mark of terror. The mark of a beast.
The mark from a man,
Who knew your heart, taken to keep.

Beloved, with thy tranquil eyes,
That I still see, beneath this frail temple,

You have hair alike the moss,
That has grown over your mausoleum.
Beauty made luminescent,
By a face now dead, as I imagine all.

Beloved, there is nothing so alive to see,
Than my delusion being real.

My hands tremble when they extend,
For the face gone from this world,
For the life gone from this world.
Wherever thou be, thou is gone.

Denial has been my labor,
Intensive, in its strain.
My mind, is now once more,
Weary and heavy.
Corruption has drawn out tendrils,
And through them, I speak words:

“Where was love in its blackness,
Where was love in its light,
To it, now bare in darkness,
To it, now bare in sight.”

Poem – “A Face, and a Hollow Form” – Romance

August 1, 2019
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My sweet, kiss my bitter lips.
My love, how shall we dine on my guilt?

My beauty, with everything sweet to see,
My bitterness, is yet exquisite.

Under moon and star,
Under faces apart,
In love and lust in fire,
Far, we walk, under the endless fog,
To find a memory that was once pleasant.
Dream with me, dear woman.

Your black hair comes in long strands,
Down to where it reaches your toes.
Your lashes, your eyes, and your fingers,
All have curves to see, alike the earth,
And its curvature.
See me as former, never as latter.

Rawest pain and purest shame,
Has encompassed me in highest notes.
There is memory in my mind,
Tears in my eyes,
Each one, dropping upon soil at my feet,
Feel this with me, dear woman.

Is there Hell to separate us?
Is there Heaven to unite us?

Is there family to be made,
When we die tonight on the frozen rocks?

Poem – “Blinding Tears, and Blinding Rage” – Depression

August 1, 2019
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I am seated, with my head in my palms,
And I ponder to myself over what I’ve lost,

Besides another tear.

Another tear,
Another flake to the ashes,

Another memory to the burial,
Another fragment from the heavy weight
Seemingly lost, and now,
The Earth possesses it.

Of blinding tears, and blinding rage
That seems to be all I feel.

As my emotions are frenzied,
Between these two voids,
These two bleak confusions,
These two natural diseases.

Failure stings as much as it bleeds.
Wounds are nestled on my heart,

Guilt has wrapped itself
Around my tired form.

My form, vivid in all its gleaming,
Of all wounds with ragged flesh.

I would never be proud,
Of anything I’ve conquered,
On either fertile shores,
Or watery deserts.

Love once made its way to my mind,
By a singular path
;
It drew so many marks,
On where I allowed it to roam.

And now a mirror blocks my path.
It is my own path;

And a path, with such a mirror
That shows my face.
Revealing death, I see two eyes like orbs of steel,
Made present in what they reveal.

A face of ruby, and a heart of stone.
A man of no mercy upon his tired body.
I draw emptiness around,
Like a frigid cloak taken from a tundra,
Love, at my left hand,
Death, at my right.

And I collapse them, together.

Poem – “To Walk upon Death” – Romance

July 29, 2019
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Face our turmoil,
And rend the world apart!
See where we have felt the stinging pain,
The toil to what has been called love.

Never love and only the survival bought from danger,
I am a man of guilt who is asked to be strong.

I am a man of pain who is asked to be painless.
I am a man of shame who is asked to show himself.

The love from a woman has made a mark,
I show weakness, and it’s seen to be dark.

We both, as lovers, walk upon death
In each’s arms, in failure and desertion.

What am I but the man called misery?
I am not uncertain about the want,
Though, uncertain about the gain,
To what I want, to what will spell paradise.

Oh, my love, walk upon death,
There is no Heaven in this Hell.
There is barely a life to say is a treasure,
I’ve become numb against my sorrow.

And from death, and in life,
All has become black and white.
Strange minutes resort to unbidden strife.
As I seek to make you my wife.

Life, in all its stalking upon death’s ground,
Do we stand upon someone’s grave,
On the street, where we wave
To taxis and workers in their frenzy?

Face me, dear one, and see my pain,
See how it soaks me down,
See how the future faces the West,
And the past falls to the East,
Backwards in confusion harmonic,
In what I am destined to be.

Poem – “The Weight upon my Palms” – Romance

July 29, 2019
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You surround yourself in an ebony shield,
An ebony garb, made by your loathing.
It feels to me like a weight upon my palms,
For I am the one who holds it close,
Like a man without the groping tension
Of one perpetual shame.

Disease and wine swim well with the other,
How famous we are, when in love,
But never so graceful as when we are drowning
In a current of pain and denial.

Have we love to behold?
Have we the moment captured?
Oh, beauty. Among you, there are flowers to rain
The petals and their thorns, on the soil
At my feet.

There’s much that is missing,
From your stagnant heart, that does not beat.
There’s much that is needed,
Beneath this moon that is full of color
Belonging to glaciers from the North,
And sorrow from a mother.

Find our way to love, we will do,
Of daylight and nighttime, as both become
The celestial landscape, upon plains of ivory, now.

Love, with your eyes under lashes,
And a pair of nostrils that breathe the fragrance
Of death and its eternal playground.
I shall come to love, and love, for eternity.

Poem – “Lose this Hold” – Romance

July 25, 2019
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Love, I’ll not ever lose this hold,
Among your hair, there are scoops of debris,
And among your cheeks, there are flowers agleam,
While among your lips, there are words stilled and silent,
As your chin was dipped in ashes,
And beholds a pale hue for myself to see.

Start weeping, and I will lose myself,
Your form is rotted and stilled,

And still do I see the colors that surround,
Your naked self,
When I had dipped my feet in your honey.
Oh, beauty! You have such a worldly complexion!

I ache, and I break, when the world takes us both.
Love finally crashes its own waves on the shoreline,
As I lean down to kiss you,
For but a moment in utter bliss.
Complete me, my torment and my woe,
My dream, my sky. My endless goodbye.

Excerpt from “The Roth Overlook” – Blog Author’s Novel – “The Taking of Purity”

July 22, 2019
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Her hands tremble as she stumbles over a flurry of inquiries, “Was our touch worthy? Was what I offered enough to relieve you and provide the elixir you were seeking, or was it merely fodder for another one of your papers? Am I the inspiration for your work, like a muse is to an artist, or am I truly your beloved? What am I to you?”

Evidently, these are questions that breathe loathing upon Bastian, so he somewhat recoils from its devastative emanation. He looks at her, attempting to understand the many fractures of her soul and their alignment with each other, as if to witness the vividness of her torment in its entirety.

She has been the onlooker of his misery! She has also been the subject of his studies. In being his subject, she has encompassed the innocence of a young girl, and that innocence has transformed into something far more hideous. Ignorance. A truth that is not often voiced. Ignorance in such a case is not ever innocence. As innocence as a form of being safe is always denial to the dangers around the endangered. Ignorance is replaced by knowledge, as Anita had offered herself up to Bastian’s altar, as a virgin.

Anita may as well have been raped.

Encouraged, but also forced to sacrifice her purity for the sake of what she thought to be true love. A wholehearted intent, but the penetration that was involved was likened to being knifed by a dagger. Blood was involved. An object of hardness was involved. A knife of steel. A knife of rubber. Only the former has the intended effect.

She was the demon for his studies, the little playmate for the paper, written with a pen that was akin to the god between his legs. White paper like the purity that is now erased, and the colors that are now drawn on Anita’s countenance are no longer childish.

What had been more important to Bastian, in what he wished to conquer. It is a confusion that emanates the fumes of madness. A sinister notion of what makes soldiers become longing for the bed at home.

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