Modern Romanticism

As it is me,

With the most unstable of hearts.

I breathed love like the freshest dew

Upon the highest of mountain ranges.

The pain

Is a glistening sight,

To remind me

Of my shame and plight.

I wished to kiss

Each subtle texture of a shimmer,

To your treasured lips.

Beloved,

What am I,

With these searing terrors

That will not vanish,

Nor be stamped

By time’s imprint,

Into the Earth, and made to be dust?

My heart

Has holes, in it,

Like gunshot Swiss cheese,

Like the maggot-riddled corpse,

It has become the most unstable of things

Upon your absence.