Your eyes have surrounded,
My aching morning,
As beauty swims a fallen mile,
A death that I drew close,
You will be the woman I will raise,
From a worn stem of flesh.You have a face that shows a yearning,
For a merciful connection,
A series of tears have washed my tired face,
I am a man who knows truest torment,
As I have named it upon my back,
That has received many lashes.There is love streaming from my soul,
As I view the woman who I aim to save,
From a wreckage, from a failure,
And from my undoings.
My inaction has come at more cost,
Than the men who commit to genocide.I see the tears falling from your gentle face,
When you sleep in a night of darkness,
And with twisted fingers,
Rosy flesh and idle heart,
There is simplicity in every part to whatever gaze,
Has come around to apologize.
And I speak to you, “Do not weep,
You have beauty, and I have not.”I simply wish to stir,
Around the waters of your heart.
I will make the gold and the ornaments,
From my barren hands.I will make what is necessary,
So that love flourishes.
Tag: Savior
Poem – “The Dismembered Savior” – 7/9/2019
I fell with an idleness,
Made to attract the many peasants,
Made to attract my torture,
The despondence and the belittlement.
The upbringing of my guise,
The romance of my mass.
The church with its cross,
Does all to be damned.
It’s all the remains of a shape,
One hung up, like a portrait on the wall,
One of eyes that are listless and heavy,
Woolen and faltering to see,
The unending misery.
There is so much to be aware.
There are the many statues,
That have buried the bases into earth,
They were green with moss,
And red with pride.
They are now altered by hatred,
And the simplest discontent.
My empire of angles,
My wooden cross,
Searches for the nexus,
Of space and time.
My women of their breath,
My men of their dangers,
Have become sheep at my feet,
And have kissed the wrong salvation.
They were wrong to believe,
Though, right to achieve,
The aching burden of companionship,
And the most Hellish of escapes,
Into a paradise most told by Nature,
And its precepts.
I made beauty the shape on this very wall,
This very portrait, that reigns so very tall.
Poem – “The Slender Candle” – Romance
Her ethereal,
Becomes commonplace,
When as the witness,
To the sight of depravity.
The sight of God,
Too bright,
For wicked stains,
Of blight,
To make a grand performance,
For the mark of love.
She has the form of an infant,
But the exquisiteness of the priestess.
She has the desires of Eve,
And the embellishments of Adam.
She has the warmth from the sun,
Though, the coldness from the moon
Will bend closer for the kiss.
The destitute pauper, is me, and forgotten.
The lid has opened,
To my frigid heart.
My pain comes forth,
From a contented Hell.
A surge,
A sibling called Appetite,
Has craved the heart,
Of her, the despair.
I am solidness,
She is a base,
For my liquid structure,
To become hate.
She is the only moon,
To have a singular face.
And the only doubt,
That I cannot race.
Modern Romanticism 