Modern Romanticism

Fill me with the contents of your well,
While the noose holds the breath in your nostrils.
White me out on the page,
While you despair to think of the next day,
When either a funeral or a pyre
Shall eclipse the last flame of our hearts.

A lie to see me lasting
Only as a smudge on a curve,
Where the waters rushed from your eyes.
Do you see why?
In the currents of leaked demise,
We are buried under flowing Earth.

Leave a lake wherever you want,
While the stars align themselves
With your swerving veins,
Folding pain against the grain,
Washing our hands with dew,
To see stillness become brand new.

I am in your territory
Of two million definitions
Of what cannot be
Meant for us, through glimpses of dimensions,
Lost in the least dark, when the most light
Is forever astray.

Four hands,
Twenty broken fingers,
One torn heart
Of our own.