Modern Romanticism

Awaken me,

For my pain,

The burning

Is becoming forgotten.

I hold upon the face of a clock,

With my left hand in the grasp of a minute,

As my right hand is in the grasp of a second.

Was I too early,

Or was I too late

To take you?

All that I kiss, is the salty air

Of one lonely ocean.

All I feel, is something that etches words upon my back

Beneath the dark velvet sky,

Being words made of stone.

All I see, are those boughs above my head

That do not move,

Save for when they groan,

Save for when the cradle swings,

As I am the child beneath,

Who has fallen without his home.