Modern Romanticism

Your fragrance

Is a dying lullaby

For me to swing

In arms still as solid

As the boughs above.

Your face,

Among each trace

Of your smile

Holds me, still

In its clasp,

In my loneliness,

In my sadness.

I would have loved for many a while,

While you clung to the scenery

Of fear.

Your screams,

So hollow

And so vivid,

That I cannot perceive

Another tomorrow

By your side.