Modern Romanticism

Hold yourself in bliss
To where you feel so somber
Without a cloud,
Without a face upon the moon
To stare upon,
In deepest memory
To the things you have dropped.

Not bliss
For the aching lips,
For the twisting hips
Breathe forth a kiss
Down upon the weathered flesh
I have comes to say, is close to death.
Wilted, like the petals greeting winter.

You seek
Not the song
From pursed mouth,
For it will not display to your uncouth
Appearance, the face of two million tears
Running down the cheeks,
So dismembered from the rest.

Get yourself off your chest,
Like faith never offered you reward
For a token in the blue,
For a message in the green,
While all we speak of truly gleams
Like the wet running waves
Over all we've come to save.

Nothing has more tension than the mouth
Unwilling to sing
Forth notes
To the awakened skies.
All clouds, even those of summer
Rain to you, the listless emotions of winter
Coming to you, as pain unending.