Modern Romanticism

It is that

My love has become so wild,

So much like the adoring child

That my eyes begin to stare

At the wrong breath, the wrong air.

My face begins to move

For the lonely kiss.

It is that my eyes do not wish

For sleep to be.

My yearnings are stemming

From the most murderous heart

That thuds like the tolling knell

Not wanting to speak, not wanting to tell

The secret from the lie.

For my eyes have become like frost

Buried with no more beauty

In the skull that holds only sickness,

Only the worshiped loneliness.

Has she for a heart

The pain that leaves no stain

Upon the idle current that goes to restrain

Me, in its shape, in its form?

My eyes wander

Down her throat, where only Hell was swallowed,

Where Heaven was unseen

In its faintest glow.