Modern Romanticism

Keep the fall
Central, with the snow
That comes upon your palms
Under the heat of your stare.
You are
The woman without a plea
To make, in the nighttime openness.
Two eyes
That deign to cry
For a wilderness, beneath my sight.
At my feet
Where stepping stones are imagined,
I am committed to have my seat
Upon the hollow oak trunk
To contemplate all that grew you weary.

No throne for an angel without his wings,
For I am the savior, no more.
No more to stand with hands that block the blood
From streaming at every wound
To you.

No place in Heaven
Where lungs need not to breathe
The vapors of deceit,
From Mankind's fault,
Mankind's fall.

By tears to reach upon the grass blades,
By tears to reach upon the soil,
There has been dew to draw me towards
You, in the Hellish foil
Of a man, without a reason to stand
On the iron of his command,
On the silver of his tears,
On the gold of his flesh,
For I have succumbed to my own crime
Of negligence.

I am still more,
Or no more.
With or without, your eyes upon my stablest side
That falters in scheming pride.