Modern Romanticism

He went to her,

Nestled and torn

In the brink of morn,

Where a fanciful sheen was upon his temple,

And whirlwinds were above her

In a mind deranged by chaos.

Love was wanting from her feathery arms,

Love was warning him to be upon her

In everything noted of her darkness.

He went to her,

Stilled, at first

And knew not what to give her,

For his heart was enclosed and buried

In a wooden chest.

His form, a statue of oak,

His face, an expressionless sight of doom.

Though, he went to her, to uplift her

From doomsday’s scenario,

And gave to her, the passion needed,

And poured upon her cheeks, a rain of tears.

He spoke to her, “I love you, and know not what to do

Without you.”

Though, he was cradling lips, silk, and breast,

It turns out,

He went to cradle the wooden chest

To find blood boiling to his nostrils

In the stilled eclipse of his love.