How romantic would be living
beneath ravens' midnight flare
in healing springing of autumn,
beside windows of despair;
half-opened through the moors,
beholding musical quietness
with blue visions of tommorow
in willow's absence of rigidness;
I can never dance with you,
nor these beautiful livings
though on same skies underneath,
we're solely bound for beholding;
breathing romance through distance
of valid tragedy we've become
before loving loves instance,
before beholding's end begun;
but what tenderness you shower
like lanters' falling mercy
touching cruelty of this Earth
like those angels did firstly;
still, I'm weakened by your passion;
I could offer no exchange
but same loving, never equal
maybe equally as strange;
oh, forgive my virginity
for such human-fevered madness,
poorly verbalized in this poetry
your response, but in lackness;
but how romantic could this silence
be murdering chaste affection,
never to death but non-existence
without acquainting my intention.
