Writer
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Emotion. Aflame, with attempted designation to the rope. The rope, for it cannot be cut with a knife. It cannot, for it cannot hold its weight’s own will. Its weight, of a form that wishes for death. A death that would leave countless tears to rot at the feet of their rejecter. Love waits. It
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To the future, the artist can tell where the present will go. For the present, the artist can see that the past shall shape his wisdom, so that the future holds clarity. For to what the artist can create, there is always a distance from Creation, to futurist scenery. Though, it cannot be that an
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Can he wait? Can he satiate a thirst that continues to mark his lips with the dryness of salt? In that, he is holding onto the ocean. He is washing himself in her running suds. A love as glorious as the only-believed infinity of the universe, becoming finite just when we comprehend life cannot go
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Only the heartCan cart you back to sunriseWhile the love is eclipsed,ShelteredBy the bones from a smelter,MeltedInto a white next to black. My canvas for this grief,Running like the pale oceanOut of my eyes.Sentences I conjureLeave winds to stir. Her eyes show the heartache,Manifesting on blue shallows.My place is designed in her,The flu, my cure,My
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I blacken, with such sounds,The motions of my feeble arms,The blue awakening of my skies,To drown in your cloudsThe harrowing blue curves of your tears. You count the petalsSpring unleashesTo the scented winds,Breathing sweetTouches of longing. You hold out a handThat I may kiss.You take a standWhere I may catch you,Should you fall. Your eyes,
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You seek rose where there are only throesOf winter’s disheartened remorse.White releases all the dread of a forlorn momentWhere existence compels imperfection.I kiss, and kiss, againThe breath of an exiting sighFrom two lips, raised highOn a contorted face that leaves us doubtfulWithin the greatest of love’s perfection. Through the darkYou seek winter’s throes.Disheartened remorseOf the
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You were two pieces to faultThe dagger thrust down the wrong edgeOf this fragmented hopeKept in a hollow heart.Unshaken symmetryKeeps love the holiest delusion.You grow tears like seeds for newest applesTo conjure up starved beginnings. My wings come unshaken,Broken, and tattered.All like the pride I destine myself with,To the pain that drives me down.The rain
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A great washTo my bleeding arms.A great streamTo where skin comes,Uncleaned.She is the bath to makeWithout puddlesTo leave.She is the musicOf no notes. My love cries the worldAsunder.My love screams the worldIn thunder. She is the serpentWithout a worldTo swim through.A long tail matches the longest river.A stream of matching tearsTo the one, with fangs,
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Without the flock,You are astray.Without the embraceFrom the wind, to thee,You are free,Though wild.Without seeing the sun,You darken before the moon. You bleed out old colors,To cover the newPages of forgotten worlds.Your lips touch the sky,Coloring yourself heavenly.You send out dropletsOf your blood-red tears.You are, in this world,A painting without a frame,A movement without a
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From the shadows,Show yourself.Spread your gleam,From legs, that are lean.Spread your stare,Catching much, so aware.Drown the blueInto the mountain’s white,As you may bathe the greenOf lazy summers,Of captured weathers,Of swaying leaves,Of turning brushIn the high-enough spillage of gold. Upon your shoulderIs nested your hand.We are as two warm loversIn the covering of mossOver stones.For we
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Step away,Dear DevilFrom your sepulcherOf dancing flames,Of chilled embers,I wish to breathe,I wish to breathe. I wish to sing songs away from sadness,I wish to dance, parted from the blackOf decay and sickness. Your eyes,Your smile,Your way to walkWith each swaying curveOf your falling blouse,Of your running dress. Your green eyes,Wild as the fields they
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Start starvingYour eyes to the fallen tears.Start believingIn God’s realm,Infinite as the universe is dark.Start dreamingThat joy shall come up, to sweep usTo the next eternity,Away from life’s short one. Start blackeningYour limbs, against the smelter.Start whiteningYour face to be forgedAnew, of something better thanThe miseriesWe’ve too much plunged for. I love you, as a
Modern Romanticism 