Modern Romanticism

Close your fatal wings around me,
Once more.
Close your bladed arms around me,
Once more,
For I know you will do so
To demand forgiveness.

My face is kissed
With lips soaked in venom.

My childlike face is the maturity of a turnip,
Still a seed.

Her eyes see the next pain to deal
Upon the core of a young man's ideal,
To escape, becomes my choice,
To shout, has been my voice.

The worship
Of fate,
Of hate,
In all dwelling consequence
To reveal her, in the awe.

What a mother,
Or what a woman
Who has little to believe
In everything she grieves.