Modern Romanticism

I wield

In hands has hot as the iron

That has matted your hair

Into straightness,

Breasts as cold as the sun

In your chest.

Beneath flesh

That has escaped all sign of life.

There was but one place to live

Away from my untidy ambitions,

Away from my acquisition

Of nothing to no substance.

I am left with a scar

To see as the flesh was once a star.