Modern Romanticism

There is not much to call home

In your arms.

Like a furnace, you’ve grown bright,

And have burned all to ash

Around you.

Like a star, you’ve shone

With the lantern about your neck

Swinging by a rope.

Like an angel, you’ve flown

Over cities and seas, vast as the universe,

But no one will hold you.

In your arms, I am wrapped by twine,

And I receive splinters

And burns.

Believe in nothing,

I will,

When I see your face against the side of me

When I have turned away

From all I know to be

Something more alike reality.

Blood follows me,

But does not guide me,

As much as my shadow

In the night.

The moon overhead

Carves a path

Out of its own faceless self.