Modern Romanticism

His eyes are always weeping;
His hands are always trembling;
His mind is always fearful,
Without her light,
Without her warmth.

“Love has fled,”
Said the man, who bled
Tears, upon his knees, held close
To his barren chest.
A face of a withered personality.

A man poisoned into dust,
A man without the nerve to raise
Himself, from where he resides,
Beneath a curtain,
To keep a falsified smile.

He is the terrified clown,
Frightened by his reflection.
Death could cleanse him,
Love would raise him,
In pain, he is most beautiful.