Modern Romanticism

Let me enthrall

The washed out areas at your feet,

For they plead

Ever-more than you did.

Your gaze has caught a thorn in my eye.

When I bend down to reach,

A flood spills over.

There is soil needing its space to be filled,

There is a plot of land necessary for a grave

Of many weary years

In secondary tears.

I was never first in line

To be left behind.