Modern Romanticism

Seek my help

Whenever you discover Hell

In your own heart.

Where there’s a bottom to it all,

There is also a tunnel

To where sounds originate,

From cries to ecstatic sighs,

And you’ll find your human self.

I fold stems with no thorns

About yourself,

I write my name on your white flesh,

Like the phantom you’ve grown into.

What has depression done to you,

Little woman of the wind?

What will love breathe for you,

For you to give in?

I sing songs made of gold,

Not meant to turn to dust.

Yet, above the halo to your head,

There are clouds raining ash.

I want to love,

Though I’ll receive the darkness you’ve held upon

To sink myself through.