Modern Romanticism

Where shall I dump my pain
If it is from a cloud?

Where shall I dump the current load
If it only sails upstream?

The clouds war with the ground
And bless the daylight with their grief.
Just as God would like to have made Man a perfect image
Of His reflection.
Life is too crude,
Too undone
Of knots meant to hold in place,
The staying of one’s hollow face.

My heart bleeds,
While each verse I pour, onto a page,
Is set upon the longest shore,
And motions no more
To a place I now abhor.

One place I did adore
Was her face, that sold me kiss after kiss.
Where shall I love, next,
If not on the tracks meant for the train of life
To enter me into one more strife?