A Faded Romantic's Notebook




In the middle of our conversation

my eyes are drawn

to the pale,

translucent skin of your throat,

to the shadowed hollow

and your perfect bones.


I am struck blind

by the holiest of visions.


Later staring out of the darkness

my fears are stilled

by the soft

remembered curve of your smile,

and the touch of your hand

when once alone.


I am sublime 

with glorious religion.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

This is by no means a new poem of mine, written some years ago and posted here a number of times. But one always adores a neophyte. 

Art by Thomas Saliot

View original post