Modern Romanticism

What will we take from the form?
Will it be the breast, or the lips,
Both of which we kiss with our mouths, our tongues?
So much the infant, as a man,
As I am,
But, in flooding desire to see myself, whole again,
As sickness, in miserable sin.

For when I stare up at the lowered clouds,
There is a spread of shame
That judges me
To the point of collapsing further than my own knees.

I bleed whiteness
To the thick of a dream, in purpose to see her satisfied.
Upon a cross,
I am already buried.

What will I take from the form,
When I compel the devil to see me, in the sufferings I dress myself,
Like strips of cloth, against my bloodied
Bandages?
Love terrifies me, as a man,
But lust will excite me, among all things visible
About me.

Destruction is a path that I have left,
But the love before, is an emptiness,
Without vision.