Modern Romanticism

That which she trusts, with me,

All to known, only by me.

For my loyalty breathes itself, over her veins,

Over the stains, that cannot depart

From her heart, in its place.

What a history she has,

For me to cherish, to feel with each fragment

To her sullenness.

All secrets, buried in a book,

All poems, buried in the pages,

All thoughts, from her mind to my own,

Represent the cruelty upon her changed form.

But, my hands have readied themselves

And my eyes have seen.

In the gentleness,

And in the touch,

In the vision,

Of love’s straightest arrow,

I will crown her as the most perfect

Imperfection,

As she is surrounded by sights and scents

In a garden of love

And little ambition.