Modern Romanticism

My idle heart

Will not start

Without something of external

Love, to close this part.

The distance between your eyes and my own

Has left me with fingers upon the heartstrings,

As no sounds will ever play.

I used to make music with you,

Beloved one.

Entrancement

Once made me drowned in your exotic emotion,

While I glued together pieces of me

In a broken boat

That drifted for miles without another hand

To row the other oar.

Will you once more be my maiden,

Upon this voyage?

We now bleed the river before us,

And sing Heaven from our throats,

Because I do hope,

And can only hope

That Hell has left its flame behind us.