Modern Romanticism

Fold back your tears,
Lunge forth your gaze
Upon the silver streaks
That leak from a hollow man's black eyes.
There is blood, running like rivers
Over wrists, that receive no kiss.

There are tears
That aim to fall, from somewhere so tall
At the highest leaf, from the lowest grief.

There will be stains
Originating from one morose pain,
For the fullest awareness, in everything careless.

Have you seen the signs,
Or have you been blind
To the coming storm,
The created wash of a forlorn
Defeat, upon places so meek,
When our lips breathe more than we can speak.

We taste the wash,
The oncoming procession,
Of the thousandth regression.

The taste of liquid silver
Upon our tongues, where we can be hung
Like the same silver streams
Brought down from the moon's gleam.