Modern Romanticism

How deep can you fill this cup

Full of your woeful tears?

Your heartache was a shared one,

Full of the glimpses to an ended world.

Can this emptiness spill over

Of my cupped hands?

I have a solitary planet travelling through the milky texture

Of my porcelain cheek,

Like embracing a nebula

When it reaches my chin, and falls.

Like one shooting star, that might descend by whatever gravity

Could compel it to fall, in the space,

In these empty hands,

Beneath all empty lands,

Beneath where graves mingle in the Earth,

Beneath where Hell roams free

The cursed creatures, where they see

Me, holding fast the roots of a tree.

You can grow

Up to see the stars,

Without me.

You can sow

Seeds to clear the wars

To melt into the sea,

Beneath us.