Modern Romanticism

Oh, love,

When wider arms stretch

Horizontal, for the moon

To come like child in a mother's hundred tears,

She has wasted years on an empty shell

Whose eyes see only the night

For all its gravity

It pulls into me.

I seem to lift tears to me,

As I seem to watch my destinies fall

Like gifts for another's keeping.

I am the moon

Without a face for something new,

For each person has seen them all

Like tombstones with the same mementos

We comprehend, are the late goodbyes,

As mere scribbles, for mere words, on jutted rock.

Just the same solace

As I give

To the firm world around

That rises, after it sleeps

Once I shut my eyes, ever only imagined in a place as pale

As all the sorrows upon the sickened Earth.