Modern Romanticism

I seem to be

Bequeathed by grief

Under the heaviest clouds

That drain my rain to fall down

Freely from my open eyes.

As my feet are parted,

My shoulders are slack,

Among the world around

Where tiles shift into disproportions,

As sunlight turns into moonlight,

As flame turns into burning cold,

As watchful gazes turn into scornful accosting.

As the world finds its worship

Within the skies,

All the tears for me, the witness

Are merely there to see me undressed

To the cold, to the frozen boughs

Hanging lights from every tree,

While finding everything in the nothingness,

As I find darkness in the light,

For when the storm breaks,

I wish it would melt me, again.