Modern Romanticism

Whatever will ever
Come of you
In the years that follow?
Your eyes seat themselves on the edges
Of your withdrawn eyelids,
Leaned back from the bleak irises,
While falling rain,
As raining tresses of chestnut
Merge themselves in contrast
To your porcelain skin.

Your eyes seat themselves on that edge,
Never to look upwards,
Nor downwards,
Neither to Heaven nor to Hell,
Though straight ahead,
As I wonder to the longing of you
For another smile to be seen nesting
On this time
The edge of a set of ruby lips,
Never to depart.

What loyalty
I ever sprung upon you
In your clashing winter
Against the dark tresses above the temple of worship
That is your head.

Let watchful lights
Watch over you,
The lighthouse has become your home.
It shall ignite your path
Beneath your delicate feet.

You could have life,
Not ever to be dissolved.

Not ever to be dissolved
Like the snow behind you, on the cold road.