Modern Romanticism

Cut by the string

To fall downward, to everyone’s feet.

And soon, be shrouded by the sheet,

Marking my grave, by a film, upon my form in the sleet.

In the snow and ice, in the beauty and vice,

Love had been what I called home.

As everyone’s center,

Love is a stagnant surprise

To everyone’s ears.

When death came, I had expected love to follow

Me down, to the soil and beyond.

How deep does Hell run, in my swiftest veins,

In these swiftest currents?

Deeper than any underground trickle of water,

Deeper than any pain in the world.

Though, for how far love can burn,

It should have been there, to burn away Hell.