Modern Romanticism

How many hours
Can float by
Without the sight of each delicate stream
Of joyful glee?
A wilderness in your eyes,
I was lost in
Upon those hazy summers,
Brought down in the currents
Of two million tears.

How many tears of my own
Can float by
Without any worth for why I cry
In the dirt,
For a pain, that does not stain
Me, for any reason of what I see,
Being only ever me, not ever her?

There were surroundings
Engraved in the dirt,
Tears that fell like storming droplets
From a bottomless Heaven.

My tears do not create puddles,
Nor do they create the marks upon my garments,
Nor of my hands
Without the recognition of her.

Features of pain
Are no longer in my name,
Without a face to cry for,
As this countenance of mine
Will be nothing to die for,
Nothing to strive for
To uplift for a moment in straining joy.