Modern Romanticism

Nothing lies so well

As the face without the desire to tell

What fell

From eyes, that shed tears upon my feet.

Lace your thorns about my form

Upon the vines where they grow.

Roses hold no meaning

For the blood that is gleaming.

Let me die, knowing

I will leaving, glowing

Radiance upon the features that always sung

Arias to the distant moon,

While feeling scorn from the sun.

Blood is the wine

Of my old life, crossed into the new void.

My place in your arms

Is to see where Hell exists in Heaven.