Modern Romanticism

Love lifts candles

To be upon each stone

In the winter months.

Lust is the heat, for our bodies to be conjoined,

Like twins with appetite.

Like a spread of corruption, we bite into ourselves

To discover.

So much comfort in the lie,

So much to not ignore

About the mirrored image.

My heart tells me to love you,

The world tells me to love myself.

As I suffer, I soul-search.

As I suffer, I wander

Within me.

It is a lonely path

In a world without true flame.

My form

Has only taken shape through continual desire

To see, within me.

But, love lifts candles atop stones,

Atop the stones that mark each grave.

Love lifts,

While lust buries.