Modern Romanticism

What was love without the blame, again?
A lash upon my own back
From me, my own slave-master.
I defeat myself,
Blame myself,
Writhe in the guilt of disappointment.
And I see my tears falling
Without a say to where they land.

What was love without the coil,
The constriction?
The restriction,
From life with sharp wings?

What was love in all its devouring
Of my life and its freedom?

I am never,
And I know it,
Never to stay away from it.