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Modern Romanticism

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

Words of Wisdom – “A Fantasy and a Possibility” – Philosophy on Madness – 10/9/2019

October 9, 2019
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“Those scientists who reach for the impossible to turn into the possible, are who should be named, ‘Those who deny God, though long for His touch, His presence, His commandments.’ A scientist may say, ‘The impossible will become the possible, because those under the Banner of Democracy will be allowed to make any choice possible.’ And still, they meddle in those unknowns, reaching for darkness, for answers that may crack their minds; what is, I ask, the answers to life’s most amusing and entertaining questions? We ask questions, while we laugh in a comedy. We come to an answer, then the shock shifts us back to a tragedy. From certainty to comedy, then from tragedy to uncertainty; these are the maddening notions that make certainty aligned with fear. A scientist has to believe in God, if the denial of Him causes the scientist to still reach for answers. A scientist discovers, while God lays in wait; because, when we reach inside ourselves for those answers, we are finding more darkness rather than light, because light is only seen from an external source.”

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Words of Wisdom – “The Tragedy of a Hero” – 9/28/2019

September 28, 2019
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“The sad truth about a hero, is that they have infinite enemies, and very limited courage. The beacon, the star, the hero, that is, must have courage believed, by the numbered, or what is limited of them will forever be as vulnerable as those they faced, being their enemies.

A hero shines stars upon darkness, so that all will follow carrying their own message of that same bravery.”

Poem – “The Art of an Angel” – Romance/Descriptive

August 17, 2019
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How do I, describe the one,
Who has, lifted me, from deprivation?

How do I, describe the woman,
So beautiful, as to, unearth woes, from a, past life?

To make me see, all that, has come to be,
And the failures, from faiths, I transgressed, too horridly,

All mathematics, and all stars,
Point to an answer, I’ve long been, desiring to witness.
All of beauty’s image, stands before me,
In the caressing, of angel wings, and a lucid smile.

There, I see a face, engraved with stones, of purple, and red,
And a naked form, of ivory

There are, to each leg, the comparison
To pillars, of ice, or pillars, of marble.
I adore her shape, in her making, that trembles,
Under the warmth, of a dashing sun!

“Face me,” as I say it, to face me,
You are now loved, once more,

By a man, who made a woman, as a statue,
An admiration, for a life, so lonely.
I am in awe, as I’ve remained, in awe.
Movement? Is there movement, in a lifeless shape?

There must, be ebony,
A stain, on my fractured heart.
It is there, and I’ve felt it.

It has covered, and here, I know it,
Before the denial, I’ve kept.

Poem – “I Believe in Beauty as a Forethought” – Romance

July 22, 2019
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Make of the torment,
What thou will,
Make of it.
The priests call cues of negligence,
Make faces ripe with consequence.
And deliver judgement,
Like God in deliverance.
Oh, woman! A passion of mine.

A careful consideration,
To what may be beautiful
,
Has long been beautiful,
Beside me, in her endearment.
Beauty makes apples,
And apples for breasts.

I am tired of loathing
The external,

Of my sordid disposition,
Of my farewell declaration.
Of my mimicked beauty,
Of all you see of me.

Let me lick thy throat,
For guilt has overthrown me,

From the crown of achievement.
Deceit! Give me wielding,
Of all immeasurable beauty.
Have I North before South?

Have I lips before groin?
Have I mind before loin?
Lovely is her exterior, so vivid with life,
Aromas, and the fertility of the soil.
Of ocean breeze, and Autumn leaves.
Of stillness in death, and stillness in love.

I make of her, what I have always willed,
Until the day I dine on her form
.

It is a form of violet ashes, and much to be mused.

Poem – “My Hands Flood Forward” – Erotica

July 2, 2019
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I bring myself close for a study,
To see you in your rawest misery.

For I am merely a phantom,
With hands as pure ice.

You lay in bed, with a mantra of guilt,
Stumbling upon remorse like your very soul.
You have memory peeking from between your breasts.
As you rape yourself, over again.

Come and play with the devil.
Though, I’ll watch you play with my hands,
Finding the pleasure to be truest
To your cunning heart.

I ended my life by a noose,
By a thread,
By a vein.
And I beat still too close to a frozen heart.

Your face, and your eyes,
Enough for myself to alight,
In the highest flame.
I’ll glow as a phantom, and glow as a savior.

Go ahead, and lay there, attempting to forget,
Forgoing the emotions we’ve both laid down,
Upon the furnace to our love,
Upon such putrid heat, tangled in veins.

Was I in love, or was I in hate?
I cannot tell which is hotter,
Nor can I tell the difference,
Between your long-streaming eyes,
And the hated goodbyes,
Nor even the lies told by friends, spoken in a white parlor.

I find thy face, of grief, to be amusing,
My misery is high, and it will soar, past your loneliness.

All Beauty Falls without its Protection

May 2, 2019
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We had loved, without glimpses, to our present,
Allowing its gift, to surge, through our hearts,
We had called upon, love to swell,
Dancing on shores, where waters collected.

I do love thee, with all the flames, of my heart,
I love thy beauty, with all the light, that flickers.

I leave thee, to roam, among the planet’s edge,
I leave, for the music, of my soul, has lifted,
To new heights, beyond thee.

I gave thee ground, to tread,
To see this empire, as meager, as soiled,
But to pity me, is to find emptiness,
You’d find it greater, than what I’d built.

In drawing upon beauty, a blade of skin,
Marking myself, my name, into your silk,
In conquering thee, I gave plentiful graces,
To the sea, and to the sky, my domain.

You are loved, no longer.
My beauty, my pain, my shame.

Utter demises, and utter bliss,
Therefore, to walk alone, is my wish.

Excerpt from a Novel – The Blackened Kiss

May 1, 2019
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A promise of agony was given through that kiss. An agony that devotes itself to remembrance, in the glistening shape of despair. What would give any woman her mercy, besides to strike at the heart where her yearning resides?

It is tragedy made into a symphony. It is death that has become twilight, full around the moon wherefrom silver tears descend. She is loved once more, though only by hands that seek to right plentiful wrongs, of the selfish self. Of the one who had given the kiss, they are wrongs for correction in the fewest and the smallest, though also the greatest and the largest. A woman as Katharina had received a kiss of loss. Upon her lips, came the kiss that strangled her throat in deepest contempt.

Alden now sits on the side of the bed where he may see into Katharina’s green eyes. He melts into her, as she melts upon the bed.

As we say these words of passion, there is yet only the hands that still are there for Katharina’s anguish. Death-dealing and love-making go hand-in-hand, and so we see the next moment when Alden says to her, “I am not the one who had given you that child, though I don’t know her name.”

“Her name is Devorah,” says Katharina.

“Here is a kiss,” says Alden, as he leans close to lay a kiss on her cheek, the left one, to then say, “That was for the protection of your child.”

“You shall protect Devorah?” questions Katharina.

“I shall protect her, as though she were my own child,” says Alden.

“Why do you say such kind things, when you do not love me?” asks Katharina, peering closer to Alden, so that she now shares the glimpses of his soul. The sight she breathes into her lungs goes to ferment those organs with the flames of newness. She wishes for him to embrace her in deepness, so that such emptiness could be denied!

She thinks to herself, that he cannot ever love her. That such a man beknown as a philanthropist, is not to ever make selections. It would be so, and it will be so, for the man of philanthropy would not risk his vocation, for the sake of a one.

Sympathy is the treasure of the many, and empathy is the treasure of the one, the heart, and the spirit. Katharina is the wounded one, protected by the protector named Alden, though is not ever the one devoted to him.

“There is too much blackness in you,” says Alden, as simple as his utterances could be spoken.

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