Modern Romanticism

The poem and its petals,

The poet and his tears,

Laced and draped

Over every word.

Like love had a story to tell

For the reader’s sight

Upon page, drenched from pen

And a fragment of shelved sadness,

Deep in the poet’s mind.

He falters upon her memory

To see what should not wake up.

For she sleeps so peacefully, so beautifully

In the stillness of a new moon.

Love stagnates, in each droplet of a tear

Down to rain, upon the page and its grain,

Upon the page and its pain.

What feebleness has grown, upon the poet’s arms!

And what fragility

Has decided itself, to show a misery.

The poet and his mind,

Has grown weary, like his kind,

To see the felled wastes, upon her trembling grace.