Modern Romanticism

Ten wilted petals

Stumbling over the other

Upon her fingers, in the grave.

The appendages curled, in the state of her death.

She catches falling rain upon a bony cheek,

Watered over in the ivory.

Upon the fingers that do not point above,

They yet point below

To the sandy Earth

Where hollow joys

Were dropped from a hollow face,

To Hell, buried beneath herself.

I stilled my heroic gaze

To her thwarting cries,

Upon the day of her sickness

Where waters blessed her cheeks

In fevered pains.

She will rise from her mass

Of Earth, beneath,

To see, the world unfurled

By her wings, the same.

Ten wilted petals

Are hers to drop off for another's hands,

Not my own.

I see now

The torment that shades itself in the pleas of others

Who did not see, her wish to be free.

I find myself

To step away from the grave

To still my own self, so that I may be saved.