Modern Romanticism

Beneath her eyes,
I scorned a thorn on the many roses
Did color this world of ours.

Beneath her stare,
I felt the man I knew myself to be
Was never to leave, until the sun grows cold.

Beneath my veins,
I drew blood from a wide stain,
I knew myself for what I wanted, in her currents.

Beneath my form,
I sold the Devil for God's new birth
Of a son who could not die for any single sin.

No pain,
No knowledge,
No wounds,
No wrongdoing
Was to give me insight into the sunset,
When all I saw was the sunrise.

All I wanted
Was all I needed,
When all I needed
Was merely all I wanted.

How could love be so selfish?
How could I be so selfish?