Modern Romanticism

Edge yourself
On the end of the tight rope,
For it is the last bitter release
Before the middle is cut.
For upon the stem,
Midnight becomes the image
Of two connected hearts.
Am I the roots,
While you are the bud?

The thorns!
They are on the road to travel
To you.
Though, the dew
Has placed itself on the teeming buds
Peeking their faces through.

The thorns
Have been the placements of pain
On the road to you.
Each feather for our heads
Has been burned by fire.
What can I do, to raise myself higher?

If I am the roots,
As you are the bud,
There must be eyes to see.
Though, all I notice is the sun to blind me
Above, within the Heaven's eternity.

Here is me,
Wanting life
When all I receive are these tempests of strife.