Realism In Poetry

I reflect upon this rose tinted scene, that speaks only silence,

When the wind whispers become incoherent,

When the beauty of the land dies,

First with hope, then with empathy, and finally with flowers,

I watch clouds gather soulless, till darkness seeks to destroy my very agnosticism,

I wait for beauty, the shape of a woman, the rawness of intimacy, the savagery of life,

For beauty succumbs unto death, and I yearn once more to taste the life I so desire