I fell upon, the highest romance,
As an angel, centered upon his flight,
Downwards, I descended
To see, where I caught, my sight.
Love was a plaything, once to me.
Love is now a treasure, befitted to see
For its ornaments, upon nuptial evenings,
And songs sung aloud, in credible musings.
Downwards, I flew, destined to show
What I know, to be, the fairest beauty.
Her isolation, is a firmness,
Her presence, is a greatness.
A little woman, in her place, near a lake,
And yet, she cradles bones,
The form, of another,
While jealousy, sears over me.
Oh, highest romance!
Am I not the angel to know,
What Heaven, has found itself, to show
A beauty only fallen, lower than I,
And her face, is a nest of grief
Among this forest, in greater disbelief,
Her tears rain droplets, of clarity,
And her arms quiver, in the cradling,
Of a skeleton, with its mouth, open wide,
Forcing a creak, with nothing to hide.
Her face, is a place, of mourning,
Upon, this morning
In a sunrise, of terror and horror,
As no warmth, could clear
Those shadows, beneath her heavy eyes,
And the tears, collected in her mouth.
Modern Romanticism 