Modern Romanticism

Only my eyes
Have ever seen the tears you've cried
Out from pupils that were blacker
Than the soul you carry low in your arms.
Beauty has been wasted
On canvases too thickened by mistrust and defeat,
On the spiderwebs that caught more that flies,
On the vines within the forest
That grow more than thorns.

I love where wilted gardens have yet to be watered,
Where fuel has yet to start
The engine of endearment.
I love without looking behind,
Without seeing the fading shadows set by the sun
In this glowing room,
Without the turmoil that soars beyond the moon's frame
For a painting drowned in a frown.

Slick yourself
On the road that possesses no ice
On its black surface.
Is suffering your only kind of expression,
Through roaring sigh,
Searing eyes
That fold anger over the bent stem
To the flower that washes wind by wind.

Your wasted beauty
In the eyes of guilt and disgrace
Will never receive another taste
Of something solid, in the ice
Of the frozen droplets that descend from your eyes,
As you reopen yourself to the moon, as it cries
Waves to meet you on the roads,
Tides to carry you into the gray scenery.