Modern Romanticism

Atop of Heaven, there is a woman, there is a beauty
Whose triumphant call is a horn of flame.
There is the sun,
To which I grasp with all my knowing
Of what she behold for me, in this time of need.
My pain is a growing monster,
And her touch will heal.

Above to where I see long tresses trail down to my feet,
Above to where I see long eyes with lashes, combined,
Making my stare look closer,
Causing my stare to be more aware,
She is the sun, the rays of my heart,
And I live in her,
Of all pain, there is love to heal.

A different pain it will be,
From kindest gesture, and longest musing.
Great moments in reverie,
And maddening moments of reprieve,
Will be the drink of an aftermath,
A drink of an aftershock,
To my ancient torment, in living woe.

Her eyes and face of gentleness,
From above, to below,
Where I find myself clinging
To the sea and its sickness,
Where have I ever been,
Deep in this suffering,
Deep in the wrong drink?