Modern Romanticism

This home,
Made of fire,
Burned by hands and remembrances
Of something cold, though dear.
Love was something I could tell
Was something that could be away from Hell,
From the grief, from the sting of pain,
From the endless shame.

Who are you, I ask
To the reflection, before me?
There are trees
That grow, without their leaves
Seemingly, in the drear of winter.
They rise, without hands,
They lift, not needing
Of their lands.

There is me,
The man, without a crown,
The man, who wears a frown,
Crossed on his face,
As he utters no sound.

No love for the while,
No love for a smile,
As I am
The wilted man
Holding a rose, without petals.

Come through me,
World of no grief,
For I want, a tear or two
That only sleeps, when the sun rises.
I want not
To weep, in daylight,
For I want
To see, in the moonlight
The woman who crossed faces
Among infinite laces,
Slept in silence,
As I am buried, though restless.