Modern Romanticism

You have eyes,

And you bellow cries,

Like a bird perched atop

The winter bough.

You have no nest

For the chicks and their whines.

You simply squawk

For no reason at all.

Like the food within your form,

You have become selfish

In wanting it all

For yourself, in this solemn gloom.

Like a woman beneath a waterfall,

Or like a bird atop the bough,

You have starved another

Of their thinnest arms, once being larger boughs,

Than ever the worm you found atop the bark.

All rains down

Between yourself and the world,

Like insects to swallow up.