Modern Romanticism

Here is a place for you,

Set down on fields, that through

Your pointless wandering,

All breaks down, sundering.

Fire that sweeps

From your shouldering gaze,

Autumn that creeps

Towards your Hellish, false haze.

I am, what can be called

Music, for what is walled.

You have trapped yourself in your own glance,

Broken and torn up in your own stance.

Life did not leave you with many paths

To walk upon,

Blood only sides with its own white bath

To step down on.

You have your poor Hell,

I'll have my Heaven

For some life given

Freedom from its shell.