Modern Romanticism

Upon when the face of winter
Strikes my saddened eyes to shed a tear,
Like one misplaced note, upon where a harp sits
On the Chariot, with a woman and her fingers
Striking the strings to play them, aloud,
It is here, when I fall into love, once more.

She has spoke of the turmoil.
One child, one disease upon that child’s little form,
And I know it.
One depressive state, upon herself,
And I know it.
A mind, my kind. I know it well.

The face of winter has kissed her, dearly.
The face of rejection has kissed her, dearly.
A face that knows only the emptiness, and still, no anger could be managed,
For I won’t stay in that state, in that anger, in that creation of rage,
I’d rage merely at a mouse, so small as to be no threat.
But I’ll kiss the woman’s nose, the woman’s lips, the woman’s ears.

As a mere friend,
And I’ll love still more.

And if I must die for love,
Then, so be it.

Where are her drops, of sadness,
Mingling with the dark around her eyes?
They are lost to these cold, winter winds,
But, I will make growth from those white sands
That remain covering her disheartened soul,
As a friend.