Modern Romanticism

From trumpet calls,

To flaming walls,

There are eyes upon debris

Of a scattered woman.

Her face empties my form,

Her eyes empty my mind,

Her love buries me behind,

Lets me fall from the wind

To see what I should have been.

The meager man, with nothing to hand

Of to the messenger, in tow.

His hand, covered with the strands

Of a thousand weddings with so many more bits

Of lace, to wrap the bride's own face.

Let love annoy the next man

Who cannot stand

To see where blood flows and flowers grow

Upon fields made of her breast,

Grown by her milk,

Loved by her silk,

To be ended by a thorn

Buried deep in the Earth's flesh.