Modern Romanticism

Concealed

Behind blinding tears,

And not wanting to vanish,

Because it is all to feel,

When death would steal it all.

But, the darkness remains

Barren, upon my shoulders

Concealed in the gloom,

Hidden in this room,

Full of portraits that do not smile,

While the artists faked their strokes

And drew crosses over mouths,

And a crown of thorns upon a temple.

Behind the very smoke

That bleeds phosphorous into my nostrils,

I quiver,

I eat

What I want to see,

And set sail to,

In the heat.