Modern Romanticism

I fled to the furthest ends
Of your horrid form.
Where beauty forms endless trails,
Alike to your bleeding heart,
Where veins softly flow,
The vermilion blood, of a tired afternoon.

Where love has carefully nourished,
The grandest concept,
Of what we behold
In each’s eyes.

I am the man with runaway regrets,
Has slept peacefully on his folded shame.
Has cried the days off,
In a total feeling of despair.

Beneath trees and above several peddles,
I begin to love with an astonishing ecstasy.
I fail my own breath,
As I curve your form.

Loss is grand when I shape it so,
Disease and wreckage for the weak,
I love thee with all my smallest heart,
As I give to thee,
My truest self.
And then I ask, “When did love ever begin?”