Modern Romanticism

I led you into scenery

Unbounded by hope,

While you were bruised by life’s curse

That twisted your form.

You came through the rotting halls,

Crafted by rotting fingers

My face in its agony

Had startled you.

You expected the serenity

Of two peaceful doves.

What you received was the openness of further wounds,

For my kindness once left itself

In another open scene, in a drought

Where fires were the source, to clean me

To futile hate.

I love, but do not love;

I hate, and would love to not

Be the one to dismember

Your already torn form.