Story
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“Where else would time take us?”Said the man, disavowed.The little child at his feet, wished it could see,For with blinded eyes, it only groped,And was seen no differentBy that man.Because, the child was poor. A woman full of buttons to her cloak,Garbed in elegant modesty,Swam in the hatred from a man’s disgrace.Her child, singing with
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A woman’s heart is to me, the cherished stone. I walk from where I sat, to her face, and bury only myself in her tears. They come out from dark eyes as sweet to taste, for she is happy! Happiness! So alien was the word, whenever I’d writhe in a torment back in my home.
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Curiosity creates envy. Envy creates lust. Lust creates pride, even should an accomplishment not be made.
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Beautiful death,With a time, to an hourglass,There is sand, that trickles, past my form,Sculpted, as the David, and crucified,For the sins, of a one.Woman! My love, you are, as death,Never lifted aboveThe closeness, to poverty. With each groan, in savage pain,You remain enticed, by loathing.So much pain,Has crossed, your eager mind.So much shame,Has made itself,
Modern Romanticism 